


Fen'Harel's Teeth

by hes5thlazarus



Series: Fen'Harel's Teeth [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: But here you go, C-PTSD, Epic Friendship, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Hope you enjoy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Political Revolution, Revolution, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Team as Family, The Mexican Suitcase, War, War is hell, coalition building organizing, the anarchist au literally no one asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:09:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 101,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22833073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hes5thlazarus/pseuds/hes5thlazarus
Summary: First Lavellan, Imladris Ashallin, thought that her audience with the Divine against templars' harassment of Dalish mages would be a token protest, and that her people would use it to draw the city elves closer to the Vir Tanadahl. She didn't think her Keeper's calculations would catapult her to the top of the Chantry's leadership, manipulating the powers of Thedas to leave her people be.Meanwhile, Briala foments revolution in Halamshiral, using the eluvian network to sabotage the armies of Orlais. A new movement erupts in the Dales, and elves across Thedas look at this so-called "Herald of Andraste" and see Mythal's vallaslin. Fiona breaks the chains of mages across Thedas, and Fenris starts whispers of a new age in Tevinter--one where the slaves throw down their masters. A new age is coming, and all of Thedas look to Lavellan to usher it in.
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Female Lavellan/Solas
Series: Fen'Harel's Teeth [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698484
Comments: 42
Kudos: 59





	1. Into the Breach

**Author's Note:**

> Hey yall! Hope yall enjoy reading Fen'Harel's Teeth. Warnings for this chapter: discussion of incarceration, past sexual assault, torture, and murder--what happened in the gulags. Not graphic.

Chapter One: Into the Breach

  


It was the fourth time in thirty-six years that First Lavellan, Imladris Ashallin, had woken up in irons, and the second time in the past three years. This time they left her clothed: the Dread Wolf’s small mercies. Pain wracked up through her hand and into her whole body, and she spasmed. Had she been stabbed? There were templars all around her, forcing the Fade to dull. Imladris gritted her teeth. She had survived the first three times, that was why Deshanna motioned to send her to the Conclave. She would endure this one too.

The Seeker dragged her through the shemlen mob. Imladris stumbled through, still biting back the pain. Tremendous pressure ached in the very marrow of her left hand. She worried whatever weird magic was sealed there would explode and they would kill her before Cassandra’s promised trial. Flexing her hands after her bonds were cut did nothing. Chasing after Cassandra, though, did. The snow and brightness of the Breach dominated the pain; her heart beat to the pulses in the sky. Every mage must been feeling this--Cassandra seemed fine. They picked their way through the bodies and fires, through the panic and despair. Everything seemed too bright.

“There!” Cassandra barked. “Quickly!” She charged straight into a crowd of demons. Imladris bared her staff and jumped right into the fray, casting a barrier around the flat-ear and the dwarf. The elf shot her a grateful look; he looked sickly, for such a big man. She fell quickly into a rhythm. Like many Dalish mages, she normally cast with a faux-bow or sword. Spells that normally took more mana came streamlined. It was so good, to cast with a proper staff. She shocked a demon that had been harrying the dwarf into disintegration; before she could wipe the ichor off, the elf grabbed her hand and yanked her toward the Rift.

“Quickly!” he shouted, desperation in his voice. “Before more slip through!” And that pressure exploded, like a blessed relief, into the rip of the Veil and wove it shut. The elf relaxed his hold. She stared at him and rubbed her hand. “There. We’ve been fighting it all morning.”

Cassandra ordered them onward as they quickly reacquainted themselves. Apparently they had all been imprisoned together, and the hedge mage had saved her life. He was trying to make himself look small, which was difficult for such a tall man; she had not met any elves who looked as well-fed as him. He was clearly worried about execution. She sympathized. Varric, though, Varric she thought could help them all. She had read his books. Merrill and Fenris trusted him. He had unknowingly paid her brother’s ransom. As they raced through the rotting corpses, Imladris kept Seeker Cassandra’s presence at her periphery. Maybe she would throw them back into the same cell together, after the fight was done, and then Imladris could make her escape.

The shemlen clearly had no idea what they were doing, but Imladris supposed she could not fault them. In her time as First, she had never faced something as apocalyptic as this. Slavers seemed mundane compared to a rip in the fabric of the universe. She recognized the woman attempting to reason with the Chantry scum--the Hero of Ferelden’s lover, Sister Nightingale. Ashara had written about her. They had met, briefly, during the Blight. Leliana cut through Cassandra’s raging and asked Imladris, “What do you think? You’re the one who may have the power to seal this breach. What path should we take? You were First of your clan. You must have ideas.”  
Imladris took a breath. “The mountain path. It’s quicker--we’re guaranteed casualties either way, but we may be able to limit them if we take the faster path. And I am fast. I’m Dalish. And it’s better for morale if we prove that we don’t leave our men stranded.” The inclusion tasted like blood in her mouth. No one had punched her yet. The anticipation of pain: she was afraid.

Cassandra snarled. “I do not agree, but we cannot waste more time quarrelling. Let’s go.” She charged forward, before Leliana could offer advice, and Imladris hurriedly matched her pace. Their other two companions ran to keep up; Imladris quickly passed them a few healing potions from the stash Cassandra gave her, and Solas drank one down quickly.

“I am not so young as I once was,” he panted, as he struggled to keep up.

“Dwarves,” Varric grumbled, “are not built for long-distance running over mountains.”

“Shut up,” the Seeker growled. Imladris rolled her eyes at her back, and outpaced her when they got to running up the cliff. Solas was flagging; he had the pale, clammy look of someone’s first run after a long illness. Imladris slowed her pace to a brisk walk and thought about offering him one of her potions. He was dragging himself forward with his staff. Varric offered him a hand but he did not even acknowledge it. She looked away and kept moving; he would take offense. She would not blame him. She would, too, admitting weakness in front of the human. He was trying to make himself look small and harmless; it must sting to be so exhausted that the pretense was the reality.

Varric offered up a steady stream of small talk as they climbed the scaffolding and stepped through the temple sanctuary, disregarding the corpses. “They had us all thrown together in the same jail cell, at first. We were worried when they took you away. Chuckles thought they were going to kill you before you even woke up. Which would have been a damn waste of elfroot and mana, I got to say. He tried really hard to keep that mark on your hand from eating you.”

“I meant that it was consuming her as a metaphor,” Solas said as dryly as he could, for one with a stitch in his side.

“And that’s why I call you Chuckles. Because you’re so full of hilarious metaphors like that. All flash and rainbows. I have to say, Lavellan, you were great. Yelled a lot, about eyes and the grayness. Punched me in the face when we tried to get your armor off!”

“Oh,” Imladris said. “I don’t remember that. Sorry. Prison reflexes.”

“Absolutely no offense taken. We were trying to make you more comfortable, Adan had a theory that if we could get the magic circulating through your body it would cause you less pain and--well. You seemed to have a better idea. Honestly, all my experiences in prison led me to think I was going to be bored, but you kept it entertaining! You bit Solas when he tried wiping the sweat off your face, and then we had to figure out how to get blood and sweat off without you going rabid.”

“Ah,” Imladris said. “That’s strangely reassuring. I don’t like people touching my face.” She gestured at her face, which was heavily scarred from her last encounter with the Duke of Wycombe’s chevaliers. They liked to carve up their prey.

“Again, I absolutely do not blame you. How did you get the scars?”

“I’m from Wycombe.”

“Ah,” Varric winced. “The Free Marches aren’t an easy place to be a Dalish apostate.”

“That’s an understatement,” Imladris growled. Cassandra had the grace to look a little abashed. She did not want to have this conversation right now. “There--is that were the blast was?”

Cassandra slowed, regarding the terrace. “We’ll need to find a way down.” With that, Imladris slung herself right over the ledge, and away from Varric’s questions. She did not want to think about the Duke of Wycombe, ever.

Of course the first demon that fell from the rift was Pride. She wondered which of them summoned it: the hedge mage, whose name quite literally meant it in the Old Tongue; Cassandra, who seemed so aggressively chivalrous as to have melded her flesh into her gore-splattered armor; or herself, who had not let herself think about the mages lost in the Conclave, the letters she was supposed to deliver, the promise the Wycombe clans were supposed to make. When the fighting was over, the rift sealed, Solas regarded her strangely. “You’re getting quite proficient at this.”

Imladris was too tired to bristle. “My kinsmen regard me as a proficient mage.”

“Hmm.” Then the whirlpool of mana exhaustion pulled from under her feet, and the last thing she saw was Cassandra’s intent face, bent on pulling her back from the brink.

Imladris woke up to a flat-ear servant gaping at her in wonder. “What’s going on?” That was an uncharitable thought; she shouldn’t use language she would chide Mathalin for using. The girl dropped the box and kneeled, pressed her forehead to the floor, shaking.  
“I am so sorry, my lady,” she babbled, “please forgive me, my lady!”

“Lethallin, atisha, tel’athimanthe mar--” Imladris held her hands up beseeching, but the Dalish only seemed to terrify the girl further. She stuttered something about Cassandra wanting to know when she woke, and fled the room. Imladris put her head in her hands. Many of the Dalish sneered at the elves who lost their language in diaspora. Generally Imladris hated that. She had lived in an alienage, she knew the compromises the elves had to make to keep their dignity intact. Her bondsman had been from the Wycombe alienage, and he had spoken Old Elvhen more beautifully than her, with her unrelenting Dalish accent. But that Andrastian grovelling was humiliating to everyone involved--how could they stand it? She could feel despair welling at the corners of her eyes. How could they not? Not every elf could live together in an alienage, in Halamshiral, in the Friendly Homes, and every elf’s safety was beholden to the local Chantry.

The room was growing cold, despite the fire that had been stoked--likely by a different servant than the flat-ear. Alarmed, Imladris loosed her breath, focused on the mana circulating in her body. The Veil was thinning out--she could feel the wanting, the hunger pressing at the edge of her mind. This had to stop. If she, First of Clan Lavellan, was feeling demons grasping at her mind, then it must be a nightmare for the untrained mages scattered across Thedas. This had to stop.

Imladris washed and dressed quickly. They had left her armor, her pack, and her gitar in a corner. Someone had even draped her halla pendant over her greeves. They hadn’t even picked through her pack. She put her paint on--brown and gray and green shadow for her eyes, kohl to make sure everyone saw the elven in them, and deep purple tint for her lips, though not dark enough to cover the kiss of Mythal. She combed her hair and pulled it back into a bun, so they could see Mythal’s mark, so they could not ignore her scars. None of the veterans around Haven were as scarred; she wore that as a badge of honor. She had survived the Purging of the Hahrennin, the Blight, the Slavers’ Siege, and the Orlesian occupation. She would survive the breach.

“We are the last of our People,” Imladris said, “and we endure.”

She strode into the mob gathered outside her door. They cleared a path for her. She could get used to this. One of them gasped, “The Herald of Andraste! Blessings upon you, you saved us from the Breach!” Imladris stopped sharply. The shemlen could not be this fucking ignorant--she had Mythal plastered over her face for a reason, she was a proud apostate! Profoundly uncomfortable, she moved through the prostrate crowd. The Inquisition soldiers were saluting her--saving the scouts was a good move, then. Varric was waiting for her at the top of the stairs, and he beckoned her to the fire, away from the humans. One exhausted-looking refugee shifted over and moved back to her tent.

“Andaran atish’an, sa’hahren,” Varric said in a distinctly Sabrae accent.

She responded in Dalish, “You speak my tongue?”

“House Tethras trades with everyone,” Varric responded in turn. “We’re equal-opportunity opportunists. Quite a market in Ferelden for halla-horn carvings. And I have a few Dalish friends.”

“I can speak Orzish, if you prefer. Clan Lavellan has had an alliance with House Cadash for three generations.”

Varric winced. “Ugh, no...I don’t really do dwarven things. I was born on the Surface--my mother tongue is Common.” Imladris thought it was odd to be so uncomfortable with one’s heritage--Fen’Harel knew the Dalish clammered for the remnants of Elvhenan he left them. She shrugged: someone else’s identity crisis, not her problem. Varric cleared his throat. “Now that the humans are all out of earshot--are you holding up ohla kah?” He translated every word literally. It took Imladris a second to understand what she was supposed to be holding. “Most people, when they go from most wanted criminal in Thedas to savior of us all, they try to spread it out over a couple of days. Are you ohla ka?”

“You can say ‘OK,’” Imladris said, bemused. “Only the most pedantic use the alphabet like that. But…” she exhaled sharply. “I don’t know how to answer that. There’s a tear in the very fabric of reality. The entire hierarchy of the Prophet-House, of the Circles, and the Order,” she made sure not to use their Common names, “was immolated by...whatever that voice was. And I am a long way from my People.”

Varric sighed. “Listen, I’m a writer--”

“I know, I’ve read your books, Merril made me read  _ Tale of the Champion _ , we took her in when Marethari first found out about the blood magic--”

“What? Really? How?”

Imladris stared at him. “I’m a Dalish First. So is she. All Dalish mages know each other. It’s like the Merchant Guild.”

“Right, sorry. But listen--I know a tragedy when I see one. And I know what the Chantry does to elves who can’t pretend they like being treated like slaves. We kept you in sight, and I don’t think Leliana would’ve let them take a phylactery. I don’t have many contacts in the Frostback Mountains, but if you can make it down to Orzammar, I can get you safe passage from Jader to Kirkwall. And maybe Merrill can help you from there, she’s been shaking Lowtown up since Blondie blew up my fucking city--”

“I appreciate the offer, Varric,” Imladris stifled a hysterical giggle, “but where could I run? With this?” She clenched her fingers around the mark. “I’m the only one the Chantry has found so far, who can do anything about this Breach. I can’t go. It’s not right. And they would take it out on my People, if I go.”

Varric looked away. “You’re going to be a Blight of a hero, First Lavellan.”

Imladris switched to Common, “Did you mean to compare me to the Blight?”

“Oh, oh no, I’m sorry, I mean--” Varric rubbed his head. “Can we switch to Common? I’m making a hash of this. I mean to say--being a hero’s hell. I saw what it did to Hawke. Take care of yourself, okay?”

“Are you leaving?” Imladris asked.

“No. There’s a hole in the sky, and where would I go? Kirkwall’s a fucking mess, everyone’s scattered, my brother’s dead. It’d be selfish. Even I’m not that selfish. These people need me. And honestly, First Lavellan, I think you need me. You and Chuckles...elven apostates don’t tend to stay--not-Tranquil around templars. Though apparently Cullen’s gotten better--Kirkwall beat some sense into him. Just...try not to die, alright?”

Imladris laughed. “There are so many things worse than death, Varric. And we just walked through it.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“No, it’s not. It was nice talking to you, Varric.”

“Yeah, sure, that’s one way to put it. Come have dinner with me at the tavern, alright? And try and drag Chuckles around, we should try to stay together.”

“Ma serannas, vhenallin. I’ll try.”

Leaving Varric behind, Imladris broke into a quick run to avoid the fawning humans, to try to only hear and not respond to their whispers. She could see Solas in front of his shack, frowning at the Breach. He was dressed very traditionally--footwrappings, not boots, and he wasn’t wearing his ratty coat over his tunic. Elves had different circulatory systems than humans--they burned fat and muscle faster, to keep warm--but most tried to blend in when walking the world of the shem. He must have spent a long time in the Wilds, to forget.

From below the cliff, Imladris called out, “Andaran atish’an, lethallin! Mal’melav’em--serannas ma’halani vallas.”

“Ma melana’na,” he said simply. “But I don’t speak Dalish, lethallin. Only Elvhen and Common.”

“My apologies.” She jogged around the bend. “I know how to read it, but my pronunciation is unrepentantly Dalish, and so, inscrutable. How are you?”

Solas quirked an eyebrow at her. “Oh, well, enough. Doubtless better, now that the Chosen of Andraste has blessed me with her presence,” he said. “A sacred hero, sent to save us all!”

Imladris was taken aback for a second. She had not thought he would have a sense of humor--or would risk having one, yet. “Am I riding in on a shining steed?’

“I would have suggested a griffon,” Solas’ smile faded, “but sadly--they are extinct.” His face darkened; grief wracked him for a second, and he turned away and faced the Breach. He wanted to hide his face--clearly he had been in his own company for a long time. “Joke as you will, posturing is necessary. I’ve journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient worlds both famous and forgotten.” He turned to face her, smiling again. “Every great war has its hero. I’m just curious to see the kind you will be.”

Imladris had not heard someone speak so easy poetry since the Duke of Wycombe’s chevaliers slaughtered Mahanon. She sang back, “To endure this war I would make it better. To repair the Veil, as a sign of unity.” It was not her finest work, but she had not spoken with a poet since she scattered her bondsman’s ashes.

Solas blinked. “It isn’t that easy--but I wish you luck.” He exhaled sharply. “I will stay, then, at least until the Breach is closed.

Imladris stepped closer. “You were thinking of leaving.”

Solas said wryly, “I am an apostate and do not have the tentative protection the Chantry has extended to you. I do not have Andraste’s Blessing marking me for destiny and song. Cassandra has been accommodating--she has at least promised a trial, if matters... _ sour _ \--but you understand my caution.”

Imladris touched his arm reassuringly. “You came here to help, and saved my life. I will not let them hurt you. I will not let them use your selflessness against you. Warden Mahariel and Warden Tabris have seen the People honored for their efforts. They protected all elves, by standing against the storm. I should not compare myself to the women who ended the Blight, but--we will not disappoint our forebears.” It was the wrong thing to say. Solas pulled away.

“Really?” he said sarcastically. “How would you stop them?”

Imladris, without hesitating, said, “However I had to.” No elf left another elf behind. “I will not suffer a fellow prisoner to live where I would escape.”

Solas looked surprised. “Thank you.” He blushed slightly; by Fen’Harel, he was pale. “Regardless, let us hope either the mages or the templars have the power to seal the Breach.”

Imladris nodded. “Varric said--I quote--he ‘knows a tragedy when he sees one.’ He told me he would do his best to help us escape, if we need to. And that we should stick close. Cassandra may have put us under her protection, but I don’t trust templars. Particularly when they are so desperate to declare a  _ Dalish _ elf marked for Mythal the Herald of Andraste.”

Solas sniffed. “Ah, yes, you’re Dalish.”

Imladris felt her smile freeze. “Do you have a problem with the Dalish?” she asked pleasantly, feeling rage slowly pool in her belly. “Allergic to halla?” That came out too sharp: oh well. She had been hoping he was not one of  _ those _ hedge mages, who looted ruins from Arlathan for well-forgotten magic and sneered at any elf who tried to live in the Dragon Age.

Solas scowled, “The Dalish are like children, acting out long-forgotten tales, aping like puppets from a shadow play. They are violently xenophobic and reactionary at their best--”

Imladris held her hand up, “You are going to end that sentence there. I am the First of Clan Lavellan, trusted with the lives of six hundred elves and of our lethallin in the alienages of Wycombe. The Lavellan have been allied with House Cadash for three generations now, and our weaponry, our songs, our heraldry is renown through the Free Marches for its craftsmanship. When the Blight struck Ferelden, we opened the Friendly Homes. When the Blind Men came hunting for refugee prey, we routed them from the coast. When the Circles fell, we sheltered the rebel mages and their allies. Every ounce of flesh the Duke of Wycombe has taken from the People, we have made him pay and more. We sent a  _ delegate _ to the Conclave; I was to petition Divine Justinia on the behalf of the Dalish mages, who have suffered the most from this Blighted war. Do you  _ know _ how many people we have lost to the templars, lethallin?” She was starting to sweat. “Do you realize how the Dalish have suffered? We do not trouble fools. We do not trouble those who would-- _ presume _ to tell us the story of ourselves. We have lived it! I know the limitations of my people. Clan Lavellan is larger than most, wealthier than most. The shem--well, the peasantry, and some of the merchants--like us. We can afford to be hospitable. But you, of all people,  _ apostate mage _ , should know the dangers of unwarranted hospitality.”

Solas had his hands up. The ground was icy below his feet; the snow was melting under her boots. The Breach was making her control unstable. “I made you angry,” he said cautiously. “For that, I am sorry. I have not had the best experiences with the Dalish clans.”

Imladris shook her head. “Well. We do not trust so easily, in times like these. Not since the purging of the Denerim alienage. Not since the march on Halamshiral. Who did you meet? The Dalish in Orlais have more reason than others to be cautious, and the clans in the Wilds are so secretive we only know their names--they don’t even trade at the Arlathven.”

“They would not tell me their names. I met them in a ruin, and I offered them a taste of what I had seen in the Fade--and they cursed me and chased me off. For superstition, because what I saw contradicted their legend--they weren’t even from there! Their clan had not made camp there in sixty years--”

“Peace, lethallin,” Imladris was trying not to laugh at his outrage. Hedge mages were so fixated on their study, they sometimes forgot how people worked. Solas, for all his poetry, was exactly the kind of hedge mage Imladris could never take seriously. She kept the stories and songs of Arlathan alive, she named her daughters for the heroes of Dirthavaren, she could speak and read Elvhen and made sure it was taught in the Lavellan schools. She had studied enough old ruins and crumbling books, and puzzled out incomprehensible sigils--but she lived too. She was the First of Clan Lavellan, and a woman of Wycombe, a sister to her family, a mother to her daughters. And now the Herald of Andraste, Inquisition agent. “You’re an interesting person, Solas. I’d like us to be friends. And perhaps show you that you are mistaken about the Dalish. We are disparate in our diaspora--but lovely in our wildness, I assure you.”

Solas said, “You miss your people. I understand that--patriotism.”

Imladris regarded him, and tried not to let the pity show in her gaze. He had lost his people, that much was clear. She knew so many elves who had lost their people; perhaps that was why he lost himself in the Wilds, perhaps that was why he lost himself in the Fade with such poetry. It was not a healthy way to cope, but she could never judge another for trying to survive. It was so hard, to be an elf under the Chantry. It was harder when one was alone. “It’s almost time for dinner. Varric said we should eat with him, at the tavern. I spoke to the woman who manages it. She swore,” her mouth twitched, “she swore she always treated  _ her _ elves well. Equal pay and all that. So we might even be allowed to sit inside, instead of in the stables.”

“I would imagine a dwarf so silver-tongued as Master Tethras can get us a seat at the fire, at least,” Solas said, and that actually made her laugh.

“What’s the world coming to?” she asked, as they walked cautiously to the Singing Maiden. The shem gawked at them. She kept her head high, and following her lead, Solas stopped hunching his back. “Two apostate elven mages under the protection of Lady Seeker Cassandra, sixty-eigth--”

“Seventy-eighth,” Solas said pleasantly, “they’re staring at us, lethallin. I suggest we prepare an exit, in the eventuality of a fight.”

“But their swords are sheathed for now. Let’s take the entrance closer to the gate in case they rush us, I’d rather run for the mountains. We are two apostate elf mages under the protection of Princess Pentaghast herself, and the Inquisition is going to fucking pay for our dinner.”

Tense, they entered the tavern. Varric, as Solas had predicted, had indeed managed to reserve them a table by the fire. A bard was singing a familiar tune: “I am the one/who remembers what was lost…” That was a Dalish song. Perhaps they weren’t going to spit in their food. The Inquisition soldiers looked exhausted, but less desperate than a day before. The scouts Imladris had rescued were huddled in a corner by the bar, but as Imladris passed, their leader gestured and they rose as one. Smoothly, they saluted, a fist to the chest. Imladris paused, not sure how to respond--in Wycombe, they had the lal salaam, for the vhenallin. She bowed slightly and copied the gesture.

“Let us buy you a drink,” the Inquisition scout leader said. She was an elf, undedicated, and from her accent, Ferelden. “I’m Charter. Chief coordinator of Leliana’s scouts. The ale here isn’t as clear as what the Dalish drink--the war has made it harder for trade, on all accounts. But it’s decent. Not as light as what we tend to drink.”

“I’d like that,” Imladris said. Leliana was making it clear that she was under protection, not just Cassandra’s. It was a nice gesture, though a bit heavy-handed. It was reassuring that Imladris and Solas were not the only elves who were not servants, too, that were others like them in trusted positions of power--which was clearly why Charter had offered to stand her a round. “Join us for dinner?”

Solas made a muffled sound of protest. Charter and Imladris exchanged a glance, and she could feel the world begin to settle. She sat at the table with the scouts, and reluctantly Solas followed, hunching his soldiers. Varric came by.

“You know, it cost me good coin to get the nice table,” he said, sliding in across from Solas. “By the nice fire. Because it’s cold in the Frostbacks, you know. In the middle of nowhere. In the snow. Where a fire is very, very nice.”

“You’re better insulated than me,” Imladris pointed out. Flissa came by with a platter of ram cutlets and fried potatoes--heavier than what she was used to eating--and set a couple tankards by them. Solas stared into his ale like he wanted to drown himself in it, but refused to drink.

“Are you calling me fat?”

“I’m saying your species evolved for tunnels and the cold, cold voice. Mine was made for humidity.”  
Varric rolled his eyes. “Ugh,” he said, poking a suspiciously bloody piece of ram with his fork. “I’m a _surface dwarf_. From _Kirkwall_. Which as much of a humid shithole as any of the Friendly Homes of Wycombe.”

“I really don’t think anything can be as much of a shithole as Kirkwall.” And she had worked very hard, over the past two decades, to make sure the Friendly Homes were, well, friendly.

“How would you know?”

“Well--I’ve been there?” While chasing the slavers who captured her brother, she did not add. They did not need to know about Revas. Against all hope, she hoped the Inquisition would leave Clan Lavellan alone. Matters were so delicate in Wycombe, and for once it had felt like they were winning. “And it was unpleasant. Those statues of screaming, tortured slaves and mages really do not add to the ambiance. I could understand why someone would want to blow it up.”

“I don’t,” Varric said flatly. Imladris frowned: another misstep, then, no need to mention she had distributed Anders’ manifesto herself, in a special issue of  _ Fen’Harel’s Teeth _ . She should have known better--he was a senior member of the Merchants’ Guild. There would not be much sympathy for any sort of revolution, especially one that interrupted the lyrium-smuggling trade. Varric downed his ale in almost one gulp, and wiped the foam from his mouth. “Though Kirkwall is a bit of shithole, yeah.”

Charter cleared her throat. “I thought we were going to do a toast?” she said quizzically.

“You can have mine,” Solas told Varric, pushing his tankard towards him.

“Aw, Chuckles, you’re no fun. I thought we were going to loosen you up some.”  
“I really do not think we have the same definition of fun.”  
“It’s bad luck to toast with water,” Charter said. “Or fermented mushroom juice. Whatever you hedge mages drink.” Solas’ back stiffened, and Imladris quickly stepped in.

“This ale’s disgusting,” she said pleasantly, “but I’ll drink twice for my fellow apostate. He was there, after all. What are we toasting to?”

“To not getting our asses eaten by demons?”

Solas’ shoulders relaxed a bit. “Fair enough,” he said. How had Varric managed to keep Cassandra from killing him, while she was unconscious? Imladris decided she deserved this beer.

“To NOT,” Varric bellowed, “getting our asses eaten by demons!”

“Here here!” the rest of the table, even Solas, chorused, and they all drank, except, of course, Solas. Through the course of the dinner, it became clear that Charter and Varric were trying to get Solas drunk, both for their own nefarious reasons. Solas was aware of this, and after the third round, pretended to relent, and kept casting subtle banishment spells as he pretended to drink ale after ale after ale. Imladris was fascinated. He answered everyone absolutely politely, and managed to say nothing of substance in as many words as possible. It reminded her of the games the petty nobility of Wycombe would play, when she was hired to sing at their parties. Varric took a perverse pleasure in teasing him.

“You know, Chuckles,” he said, slamming his elbow down after the fifth round. Solas’ tankard tipped over and spilled on the floor. Varric had not hit the table hard enough for it to do that. “You know what I like about you? Your boundless fucking optimism.”  
Solas laughed shortly. “I am glad you’ll invent for me whatever qualities I lack, Master Tethras.” This time, he did actually take a real sip from the mass of tankards Flissa left them.

Varric drunkenly gesticulated. A scout dodged a hit, and smoothly removed any remaining ales from Varric’s reach. Leliana really had them trained well. “I mean it, Chuckles. Why else would an elven apostate who isn’t even Dalish help crazy Chantry people close a fucking  _ hole _ in the fabric of the universe? Boundless optimism, I’m saying it now. You really think the best of people!”

Solas chuckled, a real, warm laugh now. He gazed into his ale. “When you put it like that, I must concede the point.”

Charter said, “Where are you from, Solas?”

Solas stiffened. “There is little to tell. My childhood in a remote village to the north can interest no one, least of all you, or Sister Nightingale. I spent my life in seclusion, attempting to avoid the worst tragedies of the past forty years. This is not an easy world, for an elven mage--particularly one interested in the glories of the remote past.”

Varric leaned closer to Imladris and said conspiratorially,, “I bet you five sovereigns he’s from Tevinter. An academic mage family, in a mostly elven mage country house.”

“Can that exist, in Tevinter? I thought the elves were mostly slaves.” Imladris thought of her brother Revas and felt her heart seize. They had gotten him home, he had begun to sing and paint and draw again, but now only Olivine and the girls were there to help with the bleak days. And who would drag her out of bed now, for her bleak days?

“Nah, the mages get a pretty okay deal, depending where they live. Easier if you’re farther from Minrathous. Still gotta have papers. But the clothes tend to show it.”

Solas and Charter were staring at them. Solas’ face was tight, his lips thinning into a hard line. Charter’s face was carefully only curious. She was a good spy.

“And what is your opinion of my origins, First Lavellan?” Solas tossed.

Imladris spread her hands. “Well, lethallin, Tevinter is to the north. And you have the look of someone to whom humility was hard-learned--and you’re certainly not Dalish. The People are in diaspora. It is reassuring to know, that some of our kin can carve an enclave where they can thrive. Even if it may be gone. I imagine that they are gone.”

“One day,” Solas said pleasantly, “someone will summarize the terrible events of your life so quickly. But yes. They are gone.” His face darkened and his grip on the ale tightened. His haunches rose, defensively, again. He was upset--she had touched a still-bleeding wound. Imladris guessed, from that bridled anger and shame and pride, that he considered himself somehow responsible for it. She had seen that look on too many Dalish, who had survived the massacres of their clans. She guessed that blood magic was involved, or an experiment in the Fade gone wrong. So many mages accidentally loosed demons on their kin. Solas, with that sickly pallor and tension wrapped in his frame, had the look of that kind of tragedy.

“I’m sorry--but I’m sure Sister Nightingale already has. And now you’ve wandered the Wilds,” she moved the subject away from tragedy. She would have been much nastier than he had been, if someone had tried to describe to her the day they beat Mahanon to death, the day they carved up her face. “Hunting the secrets of the past, long-forgotten magic, the whispers and groans of silenced history.” She hoped her tone was teasing enough to lighten the mood. “Sleeping in decrepit temples, nibbled by giant spiders--”

“Oh, the spiders leave you well alone if you leave enough bait for them.” He seemed relieved.

“I,” Imladris said solemnly, “hate spiders. No sacred knowledge from the apples of Arlathan is worth giant spiders.”

“Really? They’re very good apples.”

Varric started laughing, “Chuckles! Was that a joke? Under all that optimism, you  _ do  _ have a sense of humor! I knew it!”

Solas blinked innocently. “But they are,” he said sadly, “very good apples.”

An awkward pause halted the conversation. Most of the scouts had left. Only Charter remained. The bard, Maryden, sang, “We held the Fade/and the demon’s flight/so far from our children/and our lives.” Imladris hated that song. She kept the demons well away from her daughters, though it was hard. Mirwen had begun to dream.

“So,” Imladris cleared her throat. “What made you start studying the Fade, Solas? A rather dangerous course of study.”

Solas sighed. “Only for the weak of will, the rash, and the unprepared. I am a Dreamer, First Lavellan. And in my dreams I beheld untold wonders, more than a quiet life in the countryside could ever promise. Being out of the Fade became troublesome. I sought more from life than--that.”

Imladris knew what “that” was--the remit of a brilliant elf under the Chantry: prison, Tranquility, suicide, or humility--and his name was pointedly pride. She shifted uneasily. She and Mahanon had been part of the first class of elves accepted to the Polytechnique at Val Royeaux, and while Mahanon had excelled, she had burnt out spectacularly. She knew exactly what he was speaking of.

“Every ruin and battlefield,” Solas continued, warming to his subject, “is steeped with death. Every building strong enough to withstand the rigors of time has a history. Both attract spirits. They press against the Veil, curious, full of wonder, weakening the barrier between our worlds.” His voice was laden with a fond sadness. “When I dream in such places, I go deep into the Fade. I can find memories no other living being has ever seen.”

Imladris gazed at him, surprised. She had never met a hedge mage who spoke so lovingly, so openly of their passion. “You’re a Somniari, then. That’s wonderful. A rare talent. My younger daughter,” she could not help but brag, “is the first somniari of Clan Lavellan since Keeper Galadriel herself. I’ve never heard of someone managing to dream so effortlessly, without someone to guard them.”

Solas was looking at her strangely. That could, of course, have just been his face. Imladris had drunk a little bit too much. “Dreaming was once as easy for my People as--falling asleep is now,” he said. “A shame it is now so rare. I  _ do _ set up wards, of course. I also dislike giant spiders. But thank you. It’s not a common field of study, for obvious reasons. Not so flashy as throwing lightning or summoning fire.” Was that supposed to be an insult? “But the thrill of finding a thousand year old dream? I would not trade it for anything.”

Imladris could not find it in herself to be offended. She liked strays. “I’d like to know more, if you wouldn’t mind. For my own curiosity, and if you have any advice for my daughter. She’s only six, but canny as the Dread Wolf himself! Once this is over…” she thought better of inviting him to Wycombe. Things had seemed to be moving in a fortuitous direction when she left, and the Breach distracted from the fears of an Exalted March, but the quest for self-determination was on the edge of the knife. The nobility could order the alienage cleared and the Friendly Homes razed, and not even House Cadash would be able to shelter every elf and vhenallin. “Well, who knows what the world will look like? If this will ever be over. But, if you could write down some basic advice, I would greatly appreciate it.”

Solas smiled. “Who am I to deny the Herald of Andraste? Or a child with a propensity for trouble like the Dread Wolf. I’d be saving the world, writing you a lesson plan.”  
“Oh, you would,” Imladris said fervently. “My daughters are _terrible_. Mathalin has absolutely no self-control, and is _terribly_ good at fire magic. And Mirwen--well, she’s less prone to immolation than her sister, but I’ve seen her _torment_ children at the playground. Her teachers assure me that she only targets the bullies, but--you know the story of Fen’Harel, Andruil, and the Forgotten One?”

“Oh, yes,” Solas said, and took a deep draught of his ale.

“I saw her do that. Turn two human boys, who were teasing her about her ears, against each other. Reminded them they hated each other more than they did her. Apparently it had something to do with competitive jousting. Either way, when the dust cleared, one needed stitches and the other had a black eye, and both were swearing eternal friendship to Mirwen for revealing the vile calumny of backing the wrong knight. I don’t pretend to understand humans,” Imladris said, perplexed, “but you would think their racism would outweigh their obsession with sports.” Solas was shaking. She realized that was his version of silent, helpless laughter.

“Lethallin,” he said, wiping his eyes, “I think it’s time for all of us to go to bed.” He and Varric walked her back to her shack, and she could hear Varric chattering as he undoubtedly walked Solas back to theirs. As she released herself into the Fade, she decided that they were not the worst fellow prisoners of fate she had ever had. Maybe, the three of them could help each other survive this.


	2. Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imladris copes, badly.

Chapter Two: Haven

Imladris woke clinging to fragments: her bondsman’s face, ears sticking out under his ridiculous hat, the feel of baby Mathalin clutching to her chest, the smell of baking bread. She groped for Mahanon at her side and almost tipped out of the bed. She fell back and sighed. Three years and she still could not believe he was dead, three years and she still looked for him, grief took her so wildly she pressed her hands to her face and curled up to keep it in, control was paramount, she was the First of Clan Lavellan, her daughters needed her to be strong. Then she realized that she could not hear Mathalin’s snoring and Mirwen’s softer sighs from the next room. Her daughters were as safe as they could be, in the first Friendly Home of Wycombe. She, though, she was in Haven. She wanted to go home.

Instead, Imladris got up, like she always did, and stretched. She washed herself quickly and did her make-up. She brushed her hair and twisted it into a bun, out of her face for the fighting, and put on her armor. Weighed down, considering her greaves and griefs, she thought about playing her gitar, maybe some Mahanon wrote, or a Dalish walking song. She put her greaves on instead, and strode out to meet the shem.

Near the training grounds, Cassandra was talking sternly to a burly blond soldier in ornate armor and Fereldan furs. He nodded towards her as she approached, trying on a smile. Imladris frowned instead. Shem men looking at her never boded well. Cassandra turned and scowled. She was beginning to think her face was made that way.

“Oh, good,” Cassandra said. “You’re up. We have need of you. This is Commander Cullen, formerly Knight-Captain of the Kirkwall guard.”

Imladris stiffened. “I had a sister in the Kirkwall Circle. The Templars made her...disappear.” Her mother’s darling, little Halla’den, who was seen making flowers dance on May Day in the Wycombe market: it had been twenty years since Imladris had seen her, and not even the vhenallin of Fen’Harel’s Teeth had managed to find anything out. She had lost her parents to the Duke of Wycombe’s purge, her oldest sister to the Wardens, a brother bought back from Tevinter, her bond to the Wycombe guard. She did not want to start the day with all this loss.

Cullen closed his eyes. “A Dalish elf mage? I don’t remember any elves with vallaslin, but...I am sorry. We could not get everyone out of the Gallows. I stayed in Meredith’s service to help the mage underground, and with my men travelled to Redcliffe to offer our blades to Grand Enchanter Fiona’s judgement. It is our responsibility to atone for the crimes the Templars have wrought. But the mages sent us to the Crossroads, to help the refugees, and Mother Giselle asked us to come here. To plead for the Inquisition’s aid.”

Imladris looked at Cassandra. She was not sure what she was expected to do. Cassandra stared back at her, gimlet-eyed. Cassandra, Imladris was beginning to realize, was not sure what the two of them were expected to do, either.

“Let’s go to Lady Montilyet and Sister Nightingale,” Imladris suggested. “Have you had breakfast?”

“Perhaps we can discuss how best to use the Inquisition there,” Cassandra agreed. “Join us. We have much to do. Varric,” her lip curled, “and Solas are already inside.” She swept them in her wake, through the dazzling snowy morning and the murmuring camp, into the muted darkness of the hall.

The hall was quiet, servants sliding platters and tureens of food onto the long table. Varric was speaking softly, in the hush of the hall, but rapidfire, gesturing as he stabbed a sausage. The ambassador was laughing, not quite coquettishly, while Sister Nightingale glowered and Solas picked at his food in silence. Cassandra threw herself down next to the human women.

“Dwarf,” she glowered, “Solas.”

“Ah, Seeker!” Varric cheered. “We were just speaking of you.”

“Messere Tethras was just telling me the most  _ amusing _ story as to how he joined the Inquisition,” Lady Montilyet added. Cassandra rolled her eyes.

“All lies,” she said, and tore a loaf of bread in half.

Cullen gestured for her to sit first, and she scooted her chair a little closer to Solas to get away from him. She really did not like it when human men took an interest in her. Embarrassed, Cullen sat across from her and looked away. The conversation continued, Varric baiting Cassandra while Josephine and Cullen laughed at all the right moments. Imladris was glad they didn’t seem to expect that the elves would or even could make conversation.

Solas picked up a tureen of oatmeal and held it while she ladeled a portion of it on her plate. She grabbed a pinch of salt and a sausage, and began the process of making it somewhat edible. “How did you sleep?” Solas asked in an undertone. “You weren’t--bothered by anyone in the morning?”

“The shem left me alone,” she murmured back. “What about you?”

“This place has a fascinating but tragic history,” Solas said, “and my dreams were preoccupied with untangling the mystery of its dragon cult and its relationship with the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I saw much, but learned little. But to answer your question--the only harassment I faced was Varric insisting I come eat with him. I do not think he trusts me to be alone.”

Imladris was irritated. She didn’t trust him to be safe by himself either, neither of them could risk being cornered. They were at the mercy of the Hands of the murdered Divine, and as apostates, their lives were already forfeit. They were lucky Cassandra had not ordered them to be made Tranquil. They were lucky Sister Nightingale sympathized with the elves. They were lucky Varric was throwing around coin for them, to show they were under his protection. How could he be this foolish, this prickly? They could not afford that kind of pride, in times like these.“We’re safer together,” she said. “Is there tea?” He passed the teapot and she poured herself a cup. “You’ve been in the Wilds for too long.”

“That may be so. But I value my privacy.” Solas went back to poking at his food. Imladris resisted the urge to slap his hand for playing with food. She was not his Keeper.

“Dread Wolf take your pride, Solas,” she shook her head. “I’m trying to keep us alive.”

Solas uttered a short laugh. “I suppose you think me ungrateful?”

“No. Ungraceful. I also value my privacy, but Varric is doing his best to keep us alive. And he’s right. We’re the only apostates in the camp, and all the other elves are servants. They don’t know how to treat us. And that uncertainty…” she trailed off, shook off the heaviness of fear.

A sudden burst of laughter startled them both. Imladris took a sip from her tea, to steady her nerves. It was very good--a full-bodied red tea from Nevarra. Josephine was smiling at her. “Oh, but the two of you have been so quiet! Varric’s talked over the rest of us. How are you finding Haven, First Lavellan? Have I got your title correct?”

Imladris was surprised that a human noble could be so polite--from greeting her ceremonially in Elvhen, to moderating the conversation and making sure everyone would speak. She was a good hostess. She took another sip of her tea and tried to say as little as possible. “It is definitely the most polite prison a human has ever caged me in,” she smiled, though she could not quite get it to reach her eyes, “and I am glad I have the opportunity for my People and all mages to seal the Breach. The devastation at the Conclave...Wycombe can wait. We need to stop the Breach.”

Josephine looked taken aback for only a second. “Ma serannas, sa’hahren,” she said formally. Her pronunciation was atrocious, but Imladris appreciated the sentiment. “The Inquisition certainly appreciates you joining our investigation of the Breach. Has Cassandra spoken to you about salary negotiations yet? I’ve had a scribe working on your contract, and after this I’d like us to look over it.”

“We don’t pay our prisoners,” Cassandra stated. “You’re here now, as of your own free will.” She looked uncomfortable. “I apologize for any misconceptions that may have arisen. You will not be taken prisoner by the Chantry while the Inquisition stands. That, I swear to you.” An awkward silence fell upon them all. Cullen cleared his throat. Solas continued to pick at his food. Cassandra stared at Imladris, but Imladris refused to blink. Finally, the Seeker looked away.

“Well,” Varric said, “you all certainly know how to dramatize breakfast. How am I going to describe this? ‘Her eyes cold, the Dalish mage smiled. This is not the worst prison the shem have caged me in, she uttered, each word a dagger in the hand.  _ I have seen worse _ .’” Varric sighed happily. “Oh yes, this’ll be a best seller in the alienages. Revolutionary apostate mage, taking on the nobility, saving the world? It’ll be great. Haven’t had a book burned yet, this might be my chance.”

Imladris had no idea how to respond to that. The silence was excruciating. Cullen coughed nervously into his hand.

“Well,” Solas said eventually, turning to her, “if you ever wanted to know how history will pillory you, I think Master Tethras gave you your first blurb. Not unflattering. I’ve heard worse.”

Josephine jumped in. “I quite liked it. I’ve read some of your work, First Lavellan. Have I got the title right?”

Imladris blinked. That was not good. “My work?” she said cautiously. Hopefully she was talking about the paper she published before she was expelled from the University of Orlais, and not  _ Fen’Harel’s Teeth _ . Besides, everything she wrote in the newspaper was under a pseudonym. She tried to change the subject. “Every Dalish clan is different, but my title between clans would be First Lavellan. Sa’hahren, in Elvhen, as you said. Though we only use it ceremonially. Every clan is different, of course, but Clan Lavellan speaks primarily Dalish and Common. We have our own dialect, of course, descended from the Sindarin, with quite a few Orzish loan-words, but few of the children speak it.” She shut her eyes for a second: grief, be gone. “If I were introducing myself to the elves of a city that is not Wycombe, or to humans, I would eschew with the title entirely and ask to be called Lavellan of the Dalish.”

Varric had no interest in elven culture, though, and fixated on one point. “I didn’t know you were a writer.”

Imladris had the urge to immolate him, but reminded herself she was not her own ten-year-old daughter and did not want to die. “I--I studied in Val Royeaux, for a time. Before my scholarship was revoked.” It still rankled, all that and her first prison stint because she corrected that Chantry blowhard on a simple fact about Mythal’s role in the Dalish pantheon. “We were part of a bet the Exalted Dean of the University of Orlais lost to the Empress Celene.” Her mouth twisted: Mahanon’s dreams, won at the toss of a die. “He bet that her elven serving maid was too dull to be able to sing the Chant of Light, and the Empress challenged him to take an elf into each college if she could. And of course Briala could.” Imladris shook her head, remembering the indignant way Briala had told it, in their small apartment in the alienage. “And luck would have it that this bet coincided with the Arlathvhen, and the hahrennin selected me to represent our People. I went to the College of Antiquities, and lived there for five years.” Wryly, she said, “I think I was supposed to join the collection.” Nostalgia oozed at the edges of her perception, in the dimness of the light softly leaking in from the high windows. She banished it back to the Fade. She had met Mahanon there and wrote the first manifesto for what would become  _ Fen’Harel’s Teeth _ . They had kindled the fire that would burn Halamshiral then, but they did not know it. She leaned back in her chair. Loss, loss, loss: so many of her friends, dead these past three years.

Cassandra stared at her. “I didn’t know the University had started accepting elves.”

“They haven’t. We were a gamble, not a precedent,” Imladris said sharply. “Though I’ve heard Celene sponsored a boy from the alienage she burned to study at the College of Mathematics.”

Josephine sighed. “Orlais may have ended slavery after the establishment of the Chantry, but the Game treats its victims like property.” She looked directly at her. “I read the paper you wrote on the ruin of the temple of Mythal which the elves of Halamshiral have made their church to Andraste. It was fascinating to get a proper elven perspective on, well, elven matters! Your comparison of Andraste’s divine flames to the imagery surrounding June’s smithy was intriguing.”

“Though I’ve read your other work,” Leliana interjected. “For your newspaper. _Fen’Harel’s Teeth_? Mahariel and Tabris made Alistair read it, when we were on the road. And the Divine had a subscription. She found it...enlightening, the political voice of the elves. She thought your account of the Chantry sister in the Wycombe prison was particularly inspiring, how she would sing a hymn to Mythal for the elves. ‘We are the children of Mythal and Andraste’--would you say many of the elves would agree with that statement?”  
Everyone was staring at her. Imladris took a sip of her tea, now cold, to play for time. Everyone wanted to bring up the worst tragedies of her life today, it seemed. She had lived through them once. She could survive this conversation. “I wouldn’t,” she said shortly. “Religious syncretism is inevitable under four hundred years of occupation. Every man is entitled to their own belief. I am not an Andrastian. The Dalish believe our gods cannot hear us, and our worship of them is purely ceremonial. Though some believe they will come back. There isn’t a unified political voice of the elves, as there isn’t a unified political voice of the humans--would you tell me that if I walked into a tavern in Denerim, every human would espouse the same opinion on Queen Anora’s marriage to her father’s betrayer? If you’ve read our newspaper, you know we value debate.”

Solas said meditatively, “The only constancy of elven culture is our tendency to disagree.”

Imladris, grateful, smiled a little. “That’s true.”

Cullen coughed again. “Er, I’m really not the newspaper type, I’m sorry. But Mother Giselle sent me here with a mission, and I was hoping we could get an idea of the Inquisition’s next two weeks so I can start directing the men. The situation in the Hinterlands is dire, and the rebel mages are growing more desperate as the siege against Redcliffe continues.”

Cassandra stood up. “Enough of this. To the war table. We can discuss matters of elven culture,” she sneered, “when we do not have demons laying waste to all of Thedas.” They rose and followed her to the war table, Imladris taking her cup with her.

Varric sidled up to her as they walked. “Really,” he stage-whispered, “most dramatic breakfast ever. It’s going to make a hell of a story, Hero.”

“How do you know I’m not the villain?” Imladris asked.

Varric laughed. “Nah.  _ Chuckles _ is a more likely bad guy. You care too much about what will happen to the elves if you fuck up. Too much on the line. And you even have the mark of Andraste herself. That’s not how these stories go.”

“I thought you already decided this was a tragedy,” Solas said blandly.

Varric shrugged. “I’m holding out for a heroic last end against an arch demon, myself. Give us a half-assed happy ending. The world continues, for good or ill, without its merry band of heroes.”

Imladris snorted. “Can you imagine Cassandra being merry?”

“That’s what fiction’s for, Lavellan. That’s what it’s for.”

* * *

The map only had a few pins on it: Val Royeaux and the Hinterlands. The situation was clear: they were fucked. People were starving and getting eaten by demons in the Hinterlands, and in Val Royeaux the Chantry was clamoring for her immediate execution and threatening even Cassandra’s position in the Seekers for defending her. Cassandra thought she should go straight to Val Royeaux and tell the lily-livered weak-kneed Chantry sisters what-for--Varric’s clarification, not Cassandra’s actual words--but Josephine argued they needed to approach the Chantry from a position of strength, and that there was strength in humility. Cullen kept reminding them about the starving peasants of the Hinterlands. Cassandra said she was strong enough to carry the Inquisition on her back, if she had to. Solas stayed utterly silent the entire time, arms folded, his staff cradled to his chest.

Finally, Imladris had enough. It was like arbitrating a coalition meeting; she was good at that, that was why she was nominated first, but she was hoping Haven would provide a respite from that. “We need to come to a decision,” she said. “Quarrelling amongst ourselves does no good. We have no idea what caused the Breach. We don’t even know that the mark on my hand will fix it. The Chantry wants to kill me before we can test it out, regardless. So we need to test the mark against the Breach before we go to Val Royeaux and offer them some conclusive results. Have we any reports of rifts in the city?”

Leliana picked up a pin and placed it on the Crossroads on the Hinterlands. “There are several rifts scattered through the Hinterlands, and a Chantry mother willing to speak to the Grand Clerics on our behalf.”

“Mother Giselle,” Cullen said. “Now, she would be willing to come, but she needs to make sure her people are secure first. And, well,” he looked sheepish, “there is the question of the rebel mages. We cannot leave them between the demons and the Templars. I suggest we clear up the Crossroads--wipe out the bandits, seal the rifts, and see if we can do something for the refugees. And there’s a man I know up in the farmlands, Master Dennet, who would be invaluable to our cause. He has the finest horses in all of Feralden, and if we can convince him to send food to the Crossroads and lend us his stables, we’ll make a much finer show in the capital.”

Josephine clapped her hands. “Thus creating a positive view of the Inquisition! We are not just stumbling blindly about, we’re stabilizing the political situation of Thedas! If you could clear the mercenaries from the old Grand Forest Villa, we can even get an introduction to the Fereldan court! Which would indubitably aid our case for not killing Lavellan.”

Varric threw up his hands. “Hey, what the hell. Let’s conquer the Hinterlands and save the people. I’ve heard talk of red lyrium veins up by the dragon’s cove too--we may as well clear that up as well.”

Imladris turned to Solas. “What do you think?”

Solas seemed hesitant. “We need to clear your name with the Chantry as quickly as possible, but in order to achieve that, we must approach the Chantry not as supplicants but as a more effective force for good. I agree with Lady Montilyet and Commander Cullen--let us seal the rifts near the Crossroads and recruit Master Dennet, help Mother Giselle stabilize the situation with the refugees and head to Val Royeaux forthwith.”

Cassandra looked at Imladris expectantly. “Well?” Why were they all looking to her for the decisions? She was just an elf from Wycombe.

Imladris, without betraying a hint of her uncertainty, said, “How quickly can we reach the Crossroads?” Cassandra met her eyes and smiled slightly, and Imladris smiled back.

Leliana asked her to stay behind as the others headed to their tasks. Josephine and Cassandra were brainstorming clerics to speak to. Cullen needed to speak to the quartermaster to provision their scouts, and Solas and Varric were puzzling over a sketchy map of the Hinterlands Scout Charter had drawn, which had only the barest outlines of the roads and none of the names, but still had every rift marked in green ink.

They sunk into two armchairs that had been placed near the fireplace. Imladris was already feeling hungry; her elven metabolism kept her warm, but breakfast felt so far away and she did not know if she could go to the kitchen safely. Leliana stirred the flames with a poker and sighed. A servant came in with sandwiches and tea--really, Imladris thought, Leliana had her people trained impeccably.

“I have a letter for you,” Leliana said. “And some promises I need to make. Your Keeper wrote to me, beseeching very politely for the terms of your arrest. Entirely impersonal--she’s had some experience petitioning wardens for your arrests, so I’ve been told. She’s very fond of you, isn’t she?”

Imladris’ mouth was dry. She took a sip of tea and forced herself to swallow. “Yes,” she said, as neutrally as she could. Was this a threat?”

“This is not a threat, I promise,” Leliana folded her arms and looked at the fire. She looked exhausted. “One of the few promises I can make. Your clan will doubtlessly be targeted for your new notoriety, and I am aware that the political situation for Clan Lavellan and its vhenallin is fragile. And I personally know how the family of an elven hero can--suffer, from her enemies. From sheer bigotry, and hate. I can promise you that within the Inquisition itself, you will not be tried for your political organizing or for your apostasy. I can promise you that I will do everything I can to protect your family, without harming our cause. I am...sorry, if I caused any offense at breakfast. I truly--” Leliana stopped. “Let me try again. We have a similar vision, I think, and I’d like to send Charter to Keeper Deshanna to tell her the same. I know the Dalish trust in deeds, not words--is there anything we can spare that can help the Friendly Homes? Would you write them a letter?”

Imladris said dryly, “You could send them weapons. Lyrium. Armor--lightweight leather rogue gear, that allows for some flexibility. You could decapitate the Duke of Wycombe and send his chevaliers back to Orlais. You could kill the Empress Celene.” There was nothing more infuriating than sympathy in the face of inaction. Every nice Orlesian she met was like this: sympathetic to their plight, but unable to break the bonds of their own interests to lift a finger for the elves. She was not there, when Halamshiral burned. So much death, these past three years: so many to grieve, so little time.

Leliana’s face glowed in the fire. “Mahariel told me what the Empress did to the elves of Halamshiral. With the civil war, she will be too distracted to either urge or reign in Duke Antoine’s worse impulses. I can call in a favor with the Merchants’ Guild, for discount prices for House Cadash. But you must stay with us. We can help, but you have to help us.”

Imladris blinked. That was not what she was expecting. “Will you read my letters?”

“Charter reads Dalish. And Solas is in no position to refuse if I ask him to translate Elvhen.” Leliana smiled at her, sharply and coolly. “I want to help you, as you want to help me. But if you even pretend to betray us, you doom not just your family, but the entire world. And I am not, as Varric says, being dramatic.” She closed her eyes. “Charter’s already sent out the scouts to the Hinterlands. Cullen will have your gear ready in two hours. Finish your letter by then.” She left Imladris to the fire, and her own terror of grief.

Imladris wrote:

To the People of Free Wycombe:

These shemlen say they will not kill me directly and I believe them. They are also actively putting me in situations where I will almost definitely be killed. If I am lucky, it will be a demon, and will be quick. If I am unlucky, it will be some mad templar or abomination--but I think these people have enough conscience to mount a rescue before I am gone entirely. Allocating resources for my rescue would be a waste; the Inquisition will do with me what they will, and I will do my best to survive this and come back home.

I do not remember what happened, but after reaching the Conclave I awoke already to its ruin, blasted bodies reeking of red lyrium, my hand pulsing with a strange green light. It responds to the tear in the Veil; the only thing that soothes its vibration is weaving the Veil whole again. This Breach threatens us all. I am almost forty and a highly competent mage, but the violability of the Fade pressing against the waking world is tempting my control. If it is annoying for me, it must be devastating for an untrained child. If we want mages to survive, if we want the rebellion to succeed, we must close this Breach. And it seems that I hold the mark of our salvation in my hand.

I am staying here, of my own volition. They are paying me. They are protecting me. They say they will protect you, my People, to the best of their ability. The Left Hand of the Divine says she has a subscription to  _ Fen’Harel’s Teeth _ \--that her lover, the Hero of Ferelden, made the current King of Ferelden read it with her, during the Blight. Let us hope she understands our one point of unity: that  _ mien’harel _ is happening, regardless of where our leaders are. We act as a collective, and the loss of one will not pause the momentum of the whole.

Hunt well, my People. I will close this Breach, for the People and all of Thedas. But you--you will  _ organize _ .

First of Clan Lavellan, Imladris Ashallin

She did not dare risk a more personal message. What she wanted to write, though, was this:

Deshanna I fucking love you, don’t you dare risk more People for me. It wasn’t a mistake to send me to plead for Divine Justinia’s intervention, whatever happens to me in the Chantry prison is not your fault. I survived the prisons of Wycombe--barely, I think I’m still surviving it, but I’m not numb like I used to be, now even though I am surrounded by snow I am constantly sweating, rage and despair alternately plague my dreams, I endure.

I don’t understand what is happening, these fools think I am their god’s herald, despite Mythal’s markings emblazoned on my face, though I like the irony, the Dalish apostate with the fucked-up face being Andraste’s messenger, how does that sit with Antoine’s chevaliers? I remember Sister Therese bathing the blood out of my eyes, holding back my hair as I vomited, what they did to me in their Maker’s name I will not forget, it is emblazoned on my face, the All-Mother’s priest is scarred but unbowed. The Dalish kneel to no one.

Don’t let Mathalin use her rage as an excuse to get herself killed. Don’t let Mirwen turn cold. My girls deserve better than what I gave them. If there is enough of my body at the end of this, make sure Mathalin gets the halla pendant Mahanon gave me. Mirwen should get my books. Send Mirwen to her grandmother in Halamshiral. Ambassador Briala will know how to protect her, to use her. We will have a world to win, and I am content to be part of the ashes in which its fire shall be kindled. Is that a bad metaphor? You have ever been my editor, you’ll know how to write it.

Give this part of the letter to Revas, please. I know you’ll read this but I want him to see this in particular. My brother, I love you. You and Olivine kept me sane when torment tore me apart. I am sorry that I have to entrust my daughters to you once more, I have been so absent. You kept me alive when we were children, you dragged me along when we had to run. Baranduin and Ashallin had five children; now it seems you are the only one to remain. Endure. Our sister Ashara left Samahl, you have your Malika and Azadi, and I have Mathalin and Mirwen. May they surpass us all. Don’t give up on the Friendly Homes. The vhenallin are Lavellan now. Species does not divide us. When the slightest unite, a giant shall rise.

Mouse, don’t let the vhenallin forget me. We will only win through solidarity. And don’t let the elves forget you--those who were once refugees, like we were, who forged a home together with us. In Common, Lavellan means, roughly, “those who travel to a hopeful place.” All of those who have come to Wycombe in the thousand years the Lavellan have made its home are part of our legacy. We are the People, those who have come to build our cities of hope: Free Wycombe, Rivendell, the Golden Wood. My legacy is yours. I entrust our People to you, as you have entrusted them to me. Thank you for Samahl; Ashara truly didn’t deserve you. Look after my girls.

Rope, don’t give them enough to hang you with. I love you. Your Slow Arrow may not come home in time to cut you down. Thank you for taking care of me, after prison, for cutting my hair, for teaching me how to lie on cold stone again without flinching. What you are doing with the People’s Protection Units and the Women’s Village is the heart of our mien’harel. I wish I could come back to help you. I trust that you never needed it.

Gadden, one day we will reopen the walls of Mirrormere and establish the third friendly home for elves, men, and dwarves. Thank you for drawing my vallaslin again, after they cut my face. Thank you for having faith in the Tree that Holds the Stars and Cracks the Stone. Deshanna is a fool if she doesn’t pick you to replace me as First, and you can tell her that. You’re the only one besides me who will, so you have to. I love you.

My girls, I am so sorry. I am so sorry. I am so sorry.

* * *

Imladris had a sudden vision of herself up in the stocks of Val Royeaux, before a jeering shemlen crowd. The elven servants looked away when the noose was put around her neck. She dropped her pen and headed straight out of the hall, waving away a concerned-looking Varric. Grief dogged her footsteps, she needed to be away before it caught her.

Haven fell behind her in a blur as she headed straight for the woods. She broke into a run when she left the confines of the camp, and slowed only when she disturbed the ram. The air was cold and fresh here, she could ignore the ash of the Breach in the sky pulsing behind her. She sank into a crouch, back against the rough bark of a tree. Sensation was good, sensation kept her grounded. It was cold here, clean, unlike the steaming ever-burning flesh of the corpses at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, who still seared in agony, Imladris wondered if whatever imprint of them left in the Beyond still writhed. She closed her eyes and made herself stop thinking. She was the last of the People, she would endure. She would survive this. She would not let Leliana kill her family. Panic shot through her veins, seized her breath, and bonelessly she slunk into the snow, cold cold cold, and prayed.

Please, Creators, whatever god still listens, the Dread Wolf even--I called myself the Slow Arrow because I believed I could revive the da’lennin of Clan Lavellan when the chevaliers killed the harennin. For that tribute, listen to my prayer, spare the children. Everything I have done has been for the People. I left Orlais and forced my bondsman to abandon his dreams for the People, so we could raise our daughters with dignity. Everything I have done has been for the People. I led us out of the alienage and into our grandparents’ ruins. I promised we would take the remnants of Rivendell and the Golden Wood and forge them into a new world. When the Duke closed Wycombe to the refugees of the Blight, I made the woods and mountains our haven and opened the Friendly Homes. I renegotiated the alliance between the dwarves of the Mirrormere--the third generation of Clan Lavellan to trade mystery for mystery. Our blood is thinning but it is born anew: my brother and his dwarfling children who dream, my sister and her elfblooded Samahl, my nephew, the heart of our clan. We are making the world anew. Free Wycombe exists on the edge of the knife. In the balance, my People, my children. Spare my daughters, spare my brother, spare my sisters. We have lost so much. You took my bondsman, you took my friends, even Sister Therese did not survive. The elves of Halamshiral did not survive. The chevaliers slaughtered Clan Lindiranae and Clan Halla’vhenan this year. They did not spare the children. Creators, whichever you still listen--Fen’Harel, in your story you intervened so the youngest may rise. Spare my children. I am the Slow Arrow. Use me as you will. Spare my children, please. I will give anything to see my People through this safely. I have given everything that I am already. I will give you all that I can be, if you keep them safe.

Imladris rolled over the snow and let it cool her steaming face: but we keep us safe. She exhaled sharply, breath turning into a sob. The snow was melting around her. The Breach was havoc, for a mage. She measured her breathing with the pulse of it, listening to the Fade beyond the Veil call for her, call for her mind, her body, and held onto the rhythm. One. Two. Three. She exhaled, hands scrabbling in the mud. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. The melted snow solidified into slush. Soaked, Imladris rose, trembling. She pressed her hands to her face, felt her scars, and shivered. She thought about warm things: working in the bakery in the mornings, before class, when she lived in Halamshiral. Mathalin and the mage apprentices running through their drills in the morning. Deshanna leading the song as the People sang a job done, working together to rebuild a house or patch the harbor wall. The thrill of the kill, murdering violent men. And, of course, the heat of a broadside, fresh off the press. Warmed by the knowledge of who she was, Imladris walked back to Haven. She would close this Breach and keep her People safe. There was no other option but to succeed.


	3. The Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imladris does not respond well to the templars killing the elvhen woman's husband. But the Dalish do not bend the knee--they endure.

Chapter Three: The Crossroads

Imladris woke with her fist in the air, a snarl to her lips, blankets thrown to the ground. The body remembered. She knew she would never be caught unprepared. What had she been remembering? Her mind folded it away, but her body remembered. She slung her feet heavily to the floor and hung her head in her hands.

Eventually, she dressed, slow and deliberate, trying not to flinch at the feel of her tunic against her bare skin, the heavy leather of the apprentice robes tight but protective. She cinched her sigil book and potion belt tight. She kept her halla pendant out. Let them name her the Herald of Andraste; but she would not allow them to ever forget that she was Dalish.

Cassandra was waiting at the gates, irritated in the greenish dawn. Threnn was lecturing her, or her and the scouts dodging around her, about their lack of supplies and the necessity to be careful, to look for what they could bring back, more and more refugees were coming in and they only had so much. Imladris sympathized; she remembered the nightmare of provisioning for the Friendly Homes when they first opened their gates during the Blight. House Cadash had put her on quite a few risky jobs, and the city elves had gotten stuck in a very desperate place. The Duke of Wycombe had tried to burn Rivendell down, when they had started raiding the plantations on the delta, but the city elves had refused to come down to the High Quarter to work until the campaign stopped. Those aristocrats could never imagine a world without slaves; good thing she could.

Cassandra crossed her arms and huffed at her. “Good, you’re up. Solas and Varric are still packing. I told them to be up at dawn!”

Imladris shrugged. Solas was a dreamer mage and rather prickly, and the waking world was rather awful besides; she imagined he tried to spend as much time wandering the Fade as possible. She expected better from Varric, though. They stood silently in the snow as the dawn changed from green to a molten turquoise, like the shawl of Mythal. She didn’t feel like making small talk. Finally, the two men came hurrying up to the gates, Varric pulling Solas by his sleeve at one point. Varric looked irritated, Solas disgruntled. He was still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“This elf,” Varric said, “can sleep through everything. Including a slap to the face.”

“Only,” Solas almost growled, “because you kept myself and Adan awake up half the night telling us about your misadventures with the Champion of Kirkwall.”

“Oh come on, Adan enjoyed it,” Varric tried to laugh.

“Yes,” Solas stated. Clearly he did not.

Varric caught Imladris’ eye and she swallowed a laugh. She turned to Cassandra. “Shouldn’t we be heading out soon? If you’d like us to make it to the Crossroads before nightfall.”

With that, they left, with a group of Inquisition scouts and supplies at their heels, coming down from the Frostback Mountains and into the edges of Ferelden. Varric talked the entire time, with Solas entirely silent, Imladris occasionally grunting, and Cassandra erupting at every little barb he tossed. Eventually she walked faster, to get away from them, and started humming. It would have been faster if they had just hiked down the mountains, but the horses would not have been able to handle it, and Solas and Varric both looked like they didn’t do much mountain climbing. Imladris began to sing lowly to herself, “The road goes ever on and on…” She loved that song, loved singing it with the traders of House Cadash, during those escort missions all around the Free Marches. A few of the elven and dwarven scouts joined in, one human from the Free Marches; they went through all four verses and then Imladris started up a Dalish walking song, one the merchants used to sing on the way to the spring market at Free Wycombe. “Dar’vhen’an, dar’vhen’an, Mhairi, da’lav’hasal esayemah!” Deshanna had wanted to marry her off to one of the noble Dalish clans still in the Emerald Graves, but she had found her heart in the slums of Val Royeaux, her Mahanon, who had sung so beautifully. One of the elven scouts sang the call with her, and the others figured out the responses quickly enough. The snow of the Frostbacks gave way to something greener, more deciduous, and Imladris enjoyed the relief of the sun shining past the Breach. She sang, “Hasa, hasa tharia, hasa, dirtha’vun! Ghilanasem himan, ghilanasem dinan. Hasa, hasa thara, hasa, dirtha’vun…”

Varric jogged to catch up with her. “I don’t know the songs you’re singing,” he said, “but they’re pretty. Spin, spin wheel, spin and call the sun?” Imladris almost rolled her eyes; he was playing off how much Dalish he spoke. “Solas, do you know what she was singing?”

“No,” the apostate said sharply. “I am not Dalish. I speak Elvhen.”

Cassandra piped up, “I did not know the elves had multiple languages, though I suppose it makes sense. I thought you all spoke Elvhen?”

Imladris sighed. “We stretch across all of Thedas. Perhaps, in the time of Arlathan, my people spoke only Elvhen. The Dalish preserve as much of it as we can, and we encourage our people to learn it in order to communicate with each other. Not everyone speaks Nevarran or Orlesian, and amongst the Dalish, every clan has its own dialect. Lavellan Dalish is almost incomprehensible to an elf from Denerim alienage. But we can all...feel the language of Elvhen, though it is a language of intents, and it is difficult to map an exact meaning unto it.”

“So, Solas, does that mean you can  _ feel _ what Imladris was singing?” Varric smirked.

Solas stared at her flatly. There was distaste on his face. Clearly he had not slept well. “No.” Imladris raised an eyebrow and kept walking. Less rudely, Solas added, “She was singing in Dalish. Though your song was...lovely, in its rusticness.” Was that a compliment? If the shem weren’t around, she would have hit him.

All she had wanted to do was sing to pass the time, sing in chorus and keep the scouts moving. She tried to keep her tone level. “I do not think I have ever been called ‘rustic’ before. I suppose I should be grateful you haven’t called me savage. Whatever problem you have with my people, remember that these shem only see our ears. Not forest savage or flat ear or thin blooded. To them, you and I are apostate elves, and whether you honor Mythal by wearing her brand or pray to keep the gods locked away, they see us as the same. While we are in service to the Inquisition, you will treat me and my People with respect. I don’t care if you’re allergic to halla. We are both the last of Elvhenan, lethallin. Do not play the shemlen’s game and throw their insults at me.”

Cassandra cleared her throat awkwardly, but Imladris only shook her head and walked faster. She did not want to listen to any of them, not even Varric. They marched on in silence. At midday, sun burning into her neck, Imladris stopped at a shady creek three-quarters down the mountain and suggested they break for lunch. She leaned against a tree and pulled out the meal she had cooked late last night: Dalish waybread, and some dried apricots the pantry-keeper, a half-Dalish elf named Mhairi, had bagged for her, smiling knowingly. “My babae got that same look on his face, when he spent too much time in the village. Food helps. Let me know if you ever want to come to dinner, I know they’re keeping you under guard, but elvhenan’s got to take care of their own, right?” She loved it, she didn’t even have to initiate the conversation to have someone reach across and offer her comradeship, kinship, that easy solidarity: all in a piece of bread and some fruit.

She felt the footsteps before she saw his shadow. Solas stood before her, hesitant. “May I join you?” he asked in Elvhen.

Imladris inclined her head. “Did you bring your own lunch?” She would share, as she would with any of them, no matter how she disliked them. Did she dislike him? She didn’t know yet.

“The Seeker’s people brought provisions.” He pulled out a rough-looking sandwich. It looked like he had offended the elven kitchen servants as well.

“Mmm.” She took a bite of her waybread and wished she had some cold, clear ale to wash it down. The Hero of Ferelden’s clan had been given some land in the Hinterlands. Perhaps she would be able to sneak away and find them; that had been her original plan, to rest with them after the Conclave, before meeting with an agent from House Cadash and taking the Deep Roads under the Waking Sea. She closed her eyes, put her hand against her forehead for a second to stem the sudden rush of grief: waves at high tide, as natural as the sea against the shore.

“I owe you an apology,” Solas said.

“Hmph,” Imladris said. Then she realized what he said, and opened her eyes. “What?”

Solas looked amused for a second. Then his face went carefully blank. He switched to Common, “I was rude earlier. I am sorry. I have not subjected myself to...people in the morning for a very long time.”

“You were still offensive,” Imladris eyed him. “I am not particularly pleasant when I wake either. Your opinions are offensive, not your--mood.  _ Rustic _ . How long have you been foraging for yourself in the woods? You should know better--”

Solas’ lips thinned. “Yes.” His parents had named him well. “I should. I apologize. It was patronizing. You do have a lovely voice. It was--pleasant, listening to you and the scouts. I am sorry I interrupted.”

Imladris eased. She did like it when men apologized to her. So few, besides her People, did. She wondered briefly if she were lowering her moral standards because she was far from home and leaving herself open for manipulation. Then she looked at his odd, hollow, sharp face, how clearly sick he had been, and softened. Mythal’s children carried justice with them. They also carried mercy. “Rustic. As if we’re country serfs in Ferelden. I am Dalish--we’re not  _ rustic _ , give me  _ wild _ at least. Though not too wild. I used to sing for the petit nobilite, when I was a student in Orlais. And never any Dalish or Dwarven songs.” She shot him a smile. “That stays for elvhenan and the vhenallin.” She was offering him kinship. They were the only elven mages here. With Cassandra watching, she needed him to cover for her, and he would need her.

“You are better travelled than the Dalish I have met,” Solas said frankly. “You are not what I expected.”

Imladris stood up and stretched. She felt his eyes following her. Mildly uncomfortable, she turned. “You think any of this will be normal? That we can make any sort of prediction of what is to come?” She laughed. “Banal’nadas, lethallin.”

Solas actually smiled at her. “I find that strangely reassuring: banal’nadas.”

* * *

The Hinterlands were hauntingly beautiful: high cliffs and green, fertile grass, with useful foraging to be seen everywhere. Imladris swore the air smelled of elfroot. It was no place for farming, of course--the soil was too rocky, and there were barely enough mini-plateaus to plant a house, let alone a couple acres. It was perfect for the Dalish. Warden Mahariel was lucky that her friendship with the King granted her clan this place. Still, foreboding trailed a cool finger down Imladris’ spine. There were not any signs of the People anywhere--no woven branches in the tall oaks, no river-rock shrives to June, and no aravel tracks making grooves in the few mountain roads. Everyone they met was human. Everyone they met was trying to leave. Varric had to stop her from giving out most of their provisions, and even so she caught Solas passing over what looked like flatbread out of his pack to a particularly desperate looking Ferelden. Imladris didn’t quite understand what the fuss was about. There was plenty hunting about the mountains; she and a few of the savvier scouts could provision a village, if given enough arrows and lyrium.

The refugees looked at her in her Inquisition mage armor and did not scowl or cower in fear, though they did stare at Solas, who at first stiffened and held himself taller, stronger, stranger, then deflated and kept his gaze to the ground, trying to ape the image of an elven peasant. A hunter stopped her on the way to the healers.

“You’re that Dalish herald, aren’t you?” he said.

Imladris almost laughed. How many other Dalish women in Inquisition gear were there? “What gave it away?” she said mildly. “The vallaslin? The ears? Or the Inquisition scouts trailing my footsteps?”

The hunter shrugged. “The Dalish around here--those of the Sabrae who took up King Alistair after the Blight, and some of the Avvar-blooded--they asked me to pass on a message. Uh. It was this.” He gestured at her, pressing the middle and ring fingers of his left hand to his thumb, leaving the pointer and pinky right up. Then he raised his right hand, fingers rigid and pressed together. Imladris took a step back. “I don’t know what it means, but their hunters told me to show you that. They’ve moved somewhere closer to the Village, they’re helping the mages cull and track the apostate abominations since the Breach. A damn shame, because we can use their hunters.”

Imladris’ heart was pounding in her chest. Cassandra noticed and drew closer. “Abominations?” the Seeker said. “I thought the rebel mages knew to take care of their own.”

The hunter crossed his arms. “I don’t know, I don’t know shit about mages. All I know is that people are starving and that Clan Alerion was always good with sharing a hunt until demons started ripping through the sky, and now the best hunters of Redcliffe are too busy keeping the demons from eating people to, well, feed the rest of us. And there aren’t enough of us to go make a proper party of it, the last group of hunters who tried all got slaughtered by the templars.”

Imladris steadied herself. “We can help. This,” she held up her left hand, “can seal the rifts. And I can hunt. The land is so plentiful, around here. We’ll clean up the rifts, hunt some ram, and--I’ll make contact with Alerion. Somehow. There is so much that needs to be done here,” she said, more to herself. “We can help.”

The hunter saluted, in the Dalish way: left palm pressed to his heart. “Thank you. Anything this Inquisition can do, it’d be a help. And I hope you find your people. They’re doing good work around here.”

Imladris tried to smile but it came out as a grimace. They stepped away. Cassandra asked, “Are you alright? What was that--gesture?”

Imladris played with the halla necklace her bondsman had given her. “It’s--I should speak to Leliana, when we get back. It’s Dalish sign language.”

“What did they say?” Cassandra was nothing but obstinate. “If it worries you this much, you should let us know. We are in this together, for good or ill. And if we are to protect each other, you should trust us with your cares.”

Varric drawled, “Oh,  _ Seeker _ . I didn’t know you cared about me this much!”

“Shut it, dwarf.” Cassandra continued to stare down at her, this time her gaze softening to concern. “Are you worried about the other Dalish? Leliana told me you’re worried about the repercussions your clan might face. Did that mean--Ferelden isn’t Orlais, and under King Alistair’s reforms the Dalish are considered Ferelden citizens, if either the templars or the mages are hunting them, we can --”

“I appreciate your concern, Cassandra,” Imladris said. “Truly. I didn’t think you cared so much for the welfare of the elves. But it’s not about the People in general. That’s a different sign. And they weren’t telling me to back off. It’s much more personal. They were telling me I was in danger. It means:  _ the Dread Wolf has your scent. Be ready, He is on you _ . Don’t,” she remembered, “don’t make those signs, by the way. The wolf-hand by itself is horrifically offensive.” 

Cassandra’s brow furrowed. “How would they know? Do you think they know what happened at the Conclave? What could have given you that mark?”

Imladris spotted a shoot of elfroot sticking out of the ground and plucked it quickly. There were plenty of wounded here. It would be useful. Pocketing the leaves, she shrugged. “We’ll have to ask them to find out.”

Mother Giselle had clearly been involved in Chantry politics for a very long time; Imladris could see why her advisers were unanimous in recruiting her. Personally, she made her uncomfortable. It was insulting how the Chantry was already chafing at the bit to use her to bring the elves in, how they were already carving Mythal’s brand off her face. She would not have her ears chopped like Shartan did; Shartan, who was not a believer, Shartan, for whom there was no evidence that he sang the Chant. But Mother Giselle was right in one thing: there was much to be done in the Hinterlands, and the Inquisition could do it. And Imladris, luckily enough, had the experience to guide it. Clan Lavellan and House Cadash had welcomed the Blight refugees into their towns and formed the Friendly Homes to feed them all. Imladris and Deshanna had formed  _ Fen’Harel’s Teeth _ after the Duke of Wycombe outright invited the Blind Men in. Establishing camps here would be easier than it was at home; in Wycombe, they had to deal with raiders sailing along the coast and up the river delta. Here, they had the advantage of high terrain and spring foraging.

At base camp, Imladris gathered the scouts. “Most of you are from the Hinterlands. Have you fought these apostate-abominations before?”

Scout Lace Harding raised her hand. “My parents and the other farmers have had to fight them off Redcliffe farms. Master Dennet had us set up barricades, and Grand Enchanter Fiona set up these massive wards on our fields. It’s the ice mages that are the problem, they’ve been freezing the crops. It’s going to be a bad harvest this year.”

Imladris pursed her lips. “We’ll have to set up camps along the road to Redcliffe Farms as quickly as possible, then. What have the people been doing, to fend them off?”

Scout Harding’s face hardened suddenly. “Burning the houses, mostly. To weaken their magic, keep them from getting entrenched too. The templars haven’t been helping either; they’ve been preying mostly on the elves, the ones who didn’t follow Clan Alerion when they joined the rebel mages. They have this weird conspiracy--”

“I am well-acquainted with templar conspiracy theories about elves,” Imladris said dryly. “They think we are all blood mages bent on waking up the Blight and driving humanity further from the Maker. Or something along those lines, depending on how lyrium-addled the templar is. So. We need to do damage control. Clear up the roads, establish camps so the refugees don’t overwhelm the settlement at the Crossroads, and make sure the farms are protected. Get rid of the apostates, get rid of the templars. Feed as many people as we can while we’re at it. Simple enough. Let’s focus on stabilizing the region. We’ll establish our camps on the way to Master Dennet’s farms, and wipe out whatever apostate, templar, or mercenary strongholds that stand in our path. We’ll keep hunting, and send scouts from camp to camp to deliver food and escort refugees to the Crossroads. And, all of you.” The scouts looked up as one. “Keep an eye and ear out for any...strange elves out there. I don’t mean the Dalish. But anyone travelling alone. Anyone with red vallaslin. Don’t approach them. Let them be. And send a runner to me, immediately.”

Solas asked, “Why are you so worried about ‘strange elves’? What would you judge to be strange? By those standards, both of us would be considered suspicious.”

Imladris caught Varric putting his head in his hands. “Both of us  _ are _ suspicious, Solas. Would you trust an apostate elf wandering alone in a warzone?” Imladris clapped her hand, to make sure the scouts were paying attention. Very few of them jumped. Leliana had them well-trained. “Do not misinterpret what I am about to say. Elves are intrinsically connected to the Fade, in a way that humans are not. We do tend to produce more mages. But with that comes its own problems--we are most susceptible to demonic possession, and with the Breach, every mage is feeling the boundary between themselves and the Fade waver. So if you see a mage on their own,  _ especially  _ an elven mage who is not Dalish--in my clan, I was tasked with guiding abominations to their final peace. Let me know.”

They marched, and laid waste to those harassing the people of Redcliffe. Imladris burnt out templars, bandits, mercenaries, and mages gone wrong. They rarely stopped to bury them. She would have to organize Cullen’s men to do that--she didn’t want to risk having Inquisition recruits bury the people who killed their families. Speaking of recruits--Master Dennet was a reasonable man. She always appreciated a man obsessed enough with horseflesh to mean halla-rider as a compliment. For the first time since she left Rivendell, she felt  _ right _ : hunting ram and bear in the woods, tracking down elf-slayers, and righting as many little wrongs as she could.

They were journeying back towards the mountains for a scouting trip. Solas and Cassandra were lagging behind; both had taken a beating in their last fight against the apostates. Varric was complaining, this time, about the lack of potable ale, and how Cullen and Threnn were utterly disinterested in bringing potable ale to the refugees.

“Honestly, it’d be a morale boost,” Varric said. “Swill you  _ can _ drink, rather than swill you wash burnt ram and elfroot salad with. Swill you want to drink. Creates a fiction of choice, you know.”

Imladris was amused. “What I miss is mavash--Dalish ale, you know. Like liquid bread, but lighter, refreshing. I was hoping we’d run into Clan Alerion as we clear the roads...your friend Merrill was originally of them, you know. Before the Blight. Did she ever make you mavash?”

Varric sighed. “Oh, Daisy...how’d you meet her, anyway?”

“She was a Dalish First. I met her at her ceremony, and at the Arlathvhen before that. And she stayed with us, when Keeper Marethari asked her to leave the clan--”

“Asked?” Varric said sharply. “More like banished.”  
Imladris laughed. “Is that what she told you? Because she definitely had a choice to stay. And she chose to leave. I don’t fault her for that. She knew she would make a terrible Keeper, and at least she stuck by her sense of self rather than forcing the rest of Clan Sabrae to suffer for her own mistakes.”

Varric paused. “You know about Audacity, then. And the blood magic. You know, you’re more... _ chill _ about all this than most Dalish I’ve met.”

“I don’t fault curiosity. I fault getting innocent people mixed up in your own experiments. And Merrill was sensible enough to leave before that happened. And, well, what’s the difference between blood magic and healing magic? It’s not all spirit-based, sometimes the only way to mend the bone is to get to the marrow. Marethari was a fool to demand for her to stop healing. But with the demon…” Imladris sighed. “We’ve lost so much knowledge. She’s not the only Dalish First to make a deal with a demon when she thought she had no option, and she will not be the last. It’s cruel to cast some of our best minds aside, because they asked too much. Wanted too much. Desire can be quenched. Questions can be answered. But if you’re to lead your clan, if you’re tasked with the survival of your people--you have to put aside desire and focus on, well, survival. And Merrill should have known that.”

“She’s a good leader to the elves in the Kirkwall alienage. They call her hahren. I don’t think--”

“Merrill is a terrible leader. But she’s a wonderful  _ researcher _ . And a decent organizer. I’d trust her to explore a temple of Dirthamen. I wouldn’t trust her to take my daughters through it safely. I wouldn’t trust her not to leave my children unprotected while she explores it.” Imladris was getting annoyed. “Has she ever told you the story of Fen’Harel and the slow arrow?”

“The one where he lets all the old people die?”

“Yes. It’s a metaphor, Varric. It’s a metaphor for the role of a Keeper. Sometimes, you have to sacrifice tradition to preserve the present. And Merrill would prefer to preserve what she can of tradition. Which is fine, only...that is the type of choice that gets your clan slaughtered by templars.  _ Especially _ when you’re playing with the Blight.”

Varric frowned, but did not answer. They continued to walk. Imladris stretched and sighed. It was good to travel, though her companions were not ideal. She missed her comrades, her brother Revas, then the Mouse, Gadden, Rope--her newspaper staff, with their noms de guerre. She missed them every time she threw fire and didn’t see Rope ravening through the smoke. She missed them every time she ran out of mana and had to start beating people with her staff, and Mouse wasn’t there with a lyrium potion and a dagger to slip in her hand. She missed her brother, waking her up with his singing in the next room, forcing her to greet the day. She missed her daughters. She missed how easy it was to slip into someone’s estate and burn their fields, compared to how difficult it was to clear out several mercenary camps and plan the foundations for watch towers. She missed hunting and cooking for people who loved her, who didn’t stare at the scars on her face and flinch at the vallaslin. She missed home.

Solas and Cassandra were beginning to catch up. They were talking over Josephine’s plans for Val Royeaux. Cassandra was promising him she would do her best to put the elves and mages in the Inquisition’s service under the protection of the Pentaghast family, but Solas did not seem convinced, and kept questioning closely over the logistics.

“How do you do it?” Imladris asked Varric.

“What?”

“I know you miss the Free Marches as much as I do. How do you--”

Varric stared at her. “Honestly, Lavellan, I’ve been wondering the same of you.”

“Do you think we convince Josephine to send for dried fish?” Imladris asked wistfully. “In Wycombe, we’d flash-fry mackerel--”

“We could buy it in Val Royeaux,” Solas said. But Imladris did not want to go to Val Royeaux. She turned away. She had not been to Val Royeaux since before Mirwen was born. She didn’t want to see it, she had letters enough to feel like her friends were always present, she didn’t want to see the cafe that they had made their base when they were students, when she and Mahanon were busy falling in love and planning to set the world aflame. She didn’t want to risk the fragile peace she was building in the Hinterlands. She didn’t want to face prison again.

“So we could,” Imladris said to the air. “We’ll return to Haven in a few more days. But let’s finish this scouting mission first. There are templars to hunt. I won’t leave the roads undefended. Especially since I may not have a chance to come back.”

Cassandra grunted. “We will--” But Imladris sped up the rocky terrain, out of hearing. She was getting tired of Cassandra’s promises.

There was a house up further up the road, a woman plowing a field by herself. She straightened abruptly and brandished her plow, a snarl on her lips.

“Nuva fen’harel pala masa sule’din!” the elf snarled. “Vara u’em! I’ll fucking kill you!”

Imladris held up her hands appeasingly. “Atisha garaan, lethallin. Ar sael’Lavellan, Imladris Ashallin. Ar shemlen Inquisition. Garaan atisha.”

She lowered her plow. “Maura Ghilainnen ar, lethallin. Ar ladarelan’felannan’Alerion.” Maura shook her head, and continued in Common. “You’re a long way from home, honored First. Have you eaten your fill?” She went still, suddenly. Imladris recognized it: grief. The elf wiped her eyes. “Forgive me. It is good to see another Dalish, in these times. All the news from the roads, it’s all been about you. Come and have dinner with us. Me. I have a favor to request.”

Imladris nodded at her companions, and they entered Maura’s small house. Imladris loved it immediately; it reminded her of the rooms she shared with her daughters, back in Rivendell. It even smelled similar: pine burning in the fireplace, elfroot and rosemary drying in the kitchen, and the incense families burnt for Sylaise. She sniffed, with interest. This one was a blend asking for children. She had herbs and tinctures lying about everywhere. Maybe she would even have mavash; Imladris dearly wanted some Dalish ale.

Maura put a huge, Dalish-style iron kettle onto the fire and began shuffling around her shelves for tea.

“You’re Dalish, lethallin? And practicing?” Imladris asked.

Maura’s shoulders went up. “I am. Dedicated myself to Sylaise. But I don’t like needles, not near my eyes, and,” she gestured towards her face, and Imladris smiled. Varric and Cassandra settled into the chairs by the fire. Solas stayed by Maura’s desk, very obviously reading her book, and judging her for her reading. He was frowning. Imladris scowled. He would be rude to a Dalish woman. “I was trained as an herbalist. I met my bondsman in Redcliffe Village. He wanted to be a farmer, and.” Maura stopped. Solas looked up from the book. Imladris went cold. Cassandra got up and together they gently ushered Maura into her chair. Varric took the kettle off the fire. Solas pulled out a flask from his pocket. He found a cup and poured some whisky into it. He handed it to Imladris, who considered drinking it herself. Instead, she placed it into Maura’s hands, and pulled a chair close to her.

“Sister,” she said in Dalish, “tell me what happened to you. I will be your vengeance. Tell me what happened.”

The woods were cool and gray and Imladris’ heart sang: fly straight but do not waver, bend but never break. We are stronger together than the one. Her feet were swift and sure as she darted through the pines and ruins up towards Dwarfson Pass. Imladris ran. Softly, quietly, was Solas right behind her, Varric at his side, and Cassandra keeping up the rearguard. They tracked them to the pass. She could hear them clanking below her. Rather than charging, she drew out the sigil for an immolation spell in the place where the Fade touched the earth where the templars were standing. She waited for them to draw closer, into her web. They screamed as the fire heated their armor, and then she ran through them with an icy Fade Step, downed a lyrium potion, and struck them with more lightning. By the time they had drawn their swords, Solas ripped a wall of ice through them, and Imladris prepared another immolation spell. But before she could set them alight, Cassandra decapitated them quickly. Blood swathed across her in an arc.

“Let’s go through their pockets,” Cassandra said brusquely. “Leave the bodies for the crows.”

The way back was rough. Both Imladris and Solas had expended far too much mana too quickly, and they only had three lyrium potions to last them the journey back to Maura’s house and then to Haven. They fought off a swarm of bears, and just as Solas finished quartering their carcasses, a band of mercenaries attacked. Then they walked straight into a spellbinder’s trap. They were down to two health potions and a lyrium potion by the time they rounded the hill by Maura’s house, and even Cassandra was limping along. Dusk was settling and stars were peeping between the pines, and Imladris was beginning to be able to think again until ripped through the coming night came a woman’s scream, and without even thinking Imladris hurled herself over the ruined wall and Fade-Stepped up the hill. When she ran out of mana she just began beating them with her staff, anything to buy Maura time to get away as the templars swarmed and rage pressed hot against the despairing night, begging her to let it in, and Cassandra slapped her across the face.

Imladris touched her stinging cheek and there was blood on her gloves: not hers. She shook, and Cassandra grabbed her arm, hauling her upright. Her staff was broken. The ground was wet with the templars’ blood. Their bodies were in pieces, around Maura’s garden. Maura herself was holding a broken bow. Solas had a black eye. His staff was crackling with spirit energy. She could taste the spell he was preparing. She ran her fingers through her head and came away with blood again.

Shivering, she asked, “What happened?”

At her words, Solas relaxed, and the spell dissipated. “You nearly let Rage take you,” he said.

“Oh,” Imladris said. She looked at her hands again, and went to wipe them on her armor, but that was soaked with blood too. She looked helplessly at Cassandra. “I didn’t, Seeker. Don’t you dare make me Tranquil. I’ll wreck  _ fire _ before that happens..” She tried to wrench her arm out of Cassandra’s grip, to get at her dagger, but instead she just stumbled again, and Cassandra steadied her on her feet. To her horror, tears were clogging up her throat. This could not be the end. This could not be her end. She would not go out begging. She only screamed twice, during the torture. She silently wept when they killed Mahanon. She would not break. Solas had the last lyrium potion. If she dropped to her knees, she could leverage Cassandra backward and roll, and she knew she was faster than all of them, she could make it to the camp and restock and leave. That hunter had said the apostates had left caches all over the mountains, if she could find one, she could resupply and make it to Redcliffe Village within twelve hours, and book passage back to the Free Marches. She could outrun them. She had done it before.

“No,” Cassandra said, “no. You need rest, we’ve been pushing you too hard, can we stay the night here, Madam Maura? She can’t--we cannot--”

Maura touched her arm. “Lethallin. You did it for me.” Cassandra slowly released her. She stumbled, but Maura took her into her arms. Imladris wavered, patted her pockets, found the ring. She placed it into Maura’s waiting hand.

“My bondsman gave me one with the same knot-design. They took it from me, when they were done,” Imladris said distantly. “I don’t know their names, or their faces. They kept their helmets on.”

Solas drank the last lyrium potion and wasted valuable mana to summon water into Maura’s copper tub, and heated it too. He took Varric outside to clear the body parts off Maura’s hill. Cassandra unbuckled her armor and helped her into the bath. Maura, her husband’s ring encircling her thumb, dropped some spindleweed and crystal grace into the water. She undid Imladris’ hair, combing it out of her bun. Blood came away on her hands. Maura grimaced, but did not stop. Imladris curled into a ball to get away from her touch, to get under the water and get the blood out. When the pressure got too much, she came back up for air. The water was already turning nasty.

“I have some soap, lethallin,” Maura said. “Let’s get those monsters’ blood out of your hair.” Imladris forced herself to relax, to breathe. Cassandra was watching her. The look in her eyes wasn’t pity, just sad, a little bit of horror too.

“The scars are worse on my back,” Imladris said brusquely.

“Oh! I did not mean to stare. I. I am sorry,” she said. “I had heard...reports of what the Duke of Wycombe did to Chantry clergy who protested his policies. I did not want to believe that the worst rumors are true.”

“They killed him in front of me,” Imladris said. “After they made him watch. Then they cut up my face, so everyone would know. What happens when you fight back. But the Dalish do not bend the knee.  _ We endure _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point, the plot starts moving. I'm anticipating 8 chapters for the first arc of Fen'Harel's Teeth, and I have up to 6 written. If I manage to finish most of it before the end of May, I'll start updating biweekly. Quarantine is rough--yall stay strong out there.
> 
> The songs Imladris sings are these:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n7C3QykHxNM
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5K4TIQXCmPQ
> 
> The half-assed elvhen translations are my own, taken from Fenxshiral's Project Elvhen. I studied classical languages, not ciphers, so bear with me.


	4. Loose the Slow Arrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is when the plot actually gets moving--as you can see, it's 20,000 words, and I had to stop myself from adding more. Who would've thought 10 minutes, max, of gameplay would inspire so much? Seek me on Tumblr at greeneli.tumblr.com if you want to know what was cut, and don't be afraid to ask questions! I have some ficlets from later in the series (taking place after Adamant) from Solas' point of view, if you want spoilers...
> 
> This is an emotionally intense chapter, and more an exploration of grief than anything else. I suppose you can say that that's what this first part is about: grief, and how we carry it with us. I don't like how Bioware makes trauma pornographic, and has little emotional fallout (the city elf origin of DA:O, the failure of Protect Clan Lavellan and just the horror that is Trespasser for a Lavellan who has lost her clan, the way they treat Sera, the way they treat Fenris, etc...). Lavellan suffers, as much as anyone living through a war and an occupation suffers. She mourns. She fights back.

Chapter Four: Loose the Slow Arrow

“So,” Varric said. “Who do we think is toughest: Josephine, Leiliana, or Cassandra?”

Cassandra stopped strapping her saddle onto the horse Master Dennet gave her, a gorgeous Ferelden Forder. “I’m right here, you know.”

Varric laughed, and patted his Taslin Strider on the nose. “That doesn’t rule you out, Seeker.” He swung himself into the saddle.

Solas was checking his horse’s bridle. “Cullen’s not up for consideration?”

“Curly?” Varric said. “Nah. They just keep him around to look pretty.”

Cassandra snorted. “Cullen is a more than capable commander for the forces the Inquisition currently commands. And I thought you liked him. He was instrumental in smuggling the mages out of the Circle when Meredith called for the Annulment.”

“I do like a good redemption arc,” Varric acknowledged. “Lavellan, what do you think?”

Imladris said, “No comment.” They were riding from Haven to Jader, where they would catch a ship to Val Royeaux, and meet Josephine, who was already smoothing their passage with formal dinners with all the nobility on the way to their destination. She had taken Cullen with her, not trusting two elves, Cassandra, and Varric to behave in front of their allies. Imladris could not blame her. She had seen the itinerary and was sure she had killed at least one of their sons. “Let’s get on the road, I’ll never hear the end of it from Josephine if we miss our ship.”

People came out to see their horses as they processed through the Frostbacks and into Orlais. Many asked Cassandra for her blessing, thinking she was the Herald. Imladris shied away from human contact, riding fast and in the front. Before they left, Leliana had given her a letter from her clan. Someone would be waiting for her in Val Royeaux, with an ambassador. That could only mean one thing: Briala wanted something from her. Even if she survived her Chantry trial, Imladris was not sure she wanted to give it. She supported tormenting Celene and Gaspard’s forces, of course she did, and she had run the first year of trainings for Briala’s sabotage cells. But Briala had always been an opportunist, and her love affair with the aristocracy left Imladris cold. Briala had flourished in the Game. Imladris thought the board should be thrown away.

A few hours from Jader, Solas said, “You seem pensive.”

Imladris slowed her horse to a trot. Master Dennet really had them wonderfully trained. “It’s been a long time since I was in Val Royeaux.”

“Yes.” For a moment, it seemed as if Solas did not know what he was going to say, but he continued, “You studied there, yes? The first of your people to do so.”

Imladris grimaced. “There have always been elven scholars. We have our own colleges, amongst the Dalish. I suppose you eschew our study. But I was chosen by the High Keepers to represent the clans at the University of Orlais. To take back what we could.”

“Impressive. I am surprised they sent a mage.”

“We needed to send someone who could fight their way out without weapons. It’s illegal to have swords or bows in the alienage, you know. And I know the languages. And I have House Cadash.”

Solas tsked. “Oh yes, I heard a rumor you worked for the Carta.”

“Everyone works for the Carta,” Imladris said defensively. “Who else sells to the elves? And House Cadash isn’t--” She realized Solas was laughing.

“Out of all the rumors I’ve heard about you, I didn’t think that one would be true,” he said. “It seemed unlikely that a Dalish First from the Free Marches would be involved in an international smuggling ring. You are..full of surprises.”

“Oh?” Imladris leaned back in her saddle. She had grown up riding halla bare-back through river plains and mountain passes of Wycombe. This Antivan pony did all the work for her. “What else have you heard? Indulge my curiosity, please.” The sun was high and Val Royeaux was still two days away. She could enjoy this while she lasted.

“I must admit my favorite is one I heard from an elven servant in the tavern,” Solas mused. “She said you were the Herald of Mythal herself, sent to tame the Dread Wolf and wreck justice for the Dales.”

Imladris groaned. “Don’t repeat that around any elf, ever. That’s all I need. For the People to get competitive, and try to start their own cult too.”

Solas said, oddly, “You don’t enjoy the worship?”

Imladris looked at him incredulously. “I can’t sneeze without a Chantry sister declaring it’s a sign that the Maker’s coming back. Six months ago, I was a heretic. They locked me up for being an apostate! They  _ hunt _ our people, for our faith. And now, they’re all convinced I’m a prophet in their religion.”

Solas went solemn. “It is rare to see someone tackle times such as these so level-headedly.” Imladris blinked. Was there a rhythm there? He slipped into poetry so easily. “I have seen men driven mad by their convictions of godhood, in my journeys in the Fade. Convinced of their own inviolability, they forgot the harm they could cause. Or perhaps they always lacked that empathy.”

“I have enough scars to remind me of my own fragility,” Imladris rubbed the one that traced her jawbone. She remembered, she did not want to remember, the sick rasping sound of Mahanon drowning in his own blood. She deflected. “Have you been to Val Royeaux before?”

Solas brightened suddenly. Imladris couldn’t help but smile. He did so like being asked questions. “Oh, yes. It was wonderful. The collection of pomposity and naked power, the  _ bakeries _ ,” that was not the direction she thought he was going in, “it was easy enough to slip into Le Masque du Lion at its busiest hour, I took care to...borrow someone’s livery before coming in. The waitstaff was so harried, they took my orders quite at face-value. My favorite was the pistachio financier--”

“I cannot believe you could make a convincing servant,” Imladris interrupted. “Absolutely not. Dread Wolf sees your lies, lethallin. You must’ve bribed someone.”

Solas stiffened, the very image of injured pride. “I made quite a convincing butler to the Duke of Ghislain at that cafe, I assured you.”

Imladris burst out laughing. The idea was ludicrous: the prickly hedge mage with his homespun shirt and furs, his bone necklace and bare feet, passing as the butler to a leading member of the Council of Heralds. “Nugshit.” She pointed at him. Solas lifted an imperious eyebrow back. “Absolute nugshit.”

Varric called, “Did I hear my name called?”

Imladris laughed as Solas attempted to suppress a smile. Varric sped his horse up, and Cassandra hurried too, not wanting to be left out.

Imladris grinned. “Solas claims he once robbed an Orlesian cafe of its baked goods by impersonating the butler of the Duke of Ghislain.”

Solas arched an eyebrow. “It is not a claim if it is true,.”

Cassandra eyed Solas suspiciously. “I do not mean this with offense, Solas, but...you are not what comes to mind when I think of a butler. You don’t quite have the air of…” She trailed off.

“Simultaneous smugness and self-effacement?” Varric offered. “An exaggerated sense of one’s own importance?”

“Master Tethras, are you calling me humble?”

“No, Chuckles, you’re too self-righteous for that. And offensive. What you said about Orzammar being, I quote, ‘a severed arm of a great empire thrashing in its own blood’--”

“Well, when you put it like that--”

“I quote exactly how you put it, Chuckles. Actually, come to think about it, you do remind me of this elven servant I met in Jader once. Goes by Carson. You’re a bit more lugubrious, but you guys do have the same eyebrows. Any chance he’s a relation?”

“No,” Solas said sharply. The mood abruptly dampened. Imladris almost reached for his arm; his family had to be dead. “Well. I suppose I’ll just have to prove it to you. Any requests?”

Imladris said, “Try not to get thrown in prison when you do. Josephine’s a diplomatic mastermind, but even she would have trouble explaining this one. And if you can, I like croissants with apricot jam.”

“I’ll remember that. Seeker, any orders?”

Cassandra just groaned. “When did my life get so strange? Elven apostates impersonating butlers, Dalish falling from a hole in the sky, and the  _ dwarf _ …”

Varric nudged her. Her horse spat at him. His pony, in true Antivan style, gave her a disdainful look and shook her mane. “Aw, Seeker, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were getting fond of us.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Yes. You’re growing on me. Like a  _ fungus _ .”

Cullen and Josephine met them at the docks in Jader. Cullen looked exhausted, but Josephine was radiant. She hustled them onto the ship, chattering the whole while about the rising fame of the Inquisition, the success Cullen made as an advocate for Circle reform--“But I think we should abolish the whole lot, for the good of both the templars and the mages, I wouldn’t say that’s a  _ reformist _ position”--and an unfortunate incident with a mabari and the Arl of Edgehall--which provoked a startled laugh from Imladris, because the Arl of Edgehall was notorious for attempting to starve out the alienage. Josephine was very good at her job. She had even managed to the inner circle of the Inquisition--“Is that what we’re calling ourselves now?” asked Varric. “Better inside the circle pissing out, I guess”--one spacious room.

“Oh, I do love travelling with new companions,” Josephine declared. They had six hammocks strung along the room. There was a low table in the corner, by a porthole, that Varric immediately claimed. He had a deadline to meet, apparently. Imladris kicked her boots off and leaned against the wall, sinking into the roll and bellow of the ship. She liked sailing. It was restful. She closed her eyes and listened to the waves whisper. The sailors were singing in tune above them. She was truly dreading Val Royeaux.

Mahanon, he who moves ahead to a good place, mah’an’on: he had quite literally crashed into her life, her first night in Val Royeaux. She was renting a room from a friend of her father’s, a woman named Manon, her man’s mother. He had been playing with a corrosive poison he wanted to spread onto the monument to the Exalted March, and had dropped the flask. The floor gave. His mother had been furious--not at the plan, which had been her suggestion, but at his incompetence. They had pulled off the little action, just barely, Mahanon’s friend acting as lookout. Her life had become so complicated, since then. Back then, it was easy: fight the guards from the shadows. Love one’s comrades. Stay true to the Vir Tanadahl. Then they had met Briala, then they had gotten married, then she had slipped up and got caught stealing from the library and they had to leave so quickly, without even telling Manon good-bye. Imladris curled into herself. Her daughters had never met their father’s family. They were so small, she was afraid Mirwen was already forgetting her father’s face, she had only been three when they killed him. Mathalin looked just like him, at least she had that, and the portrait Revas had painted, left behind in the home they built. What did her friends think of this Herald of Andraste business? She still corresponded with Verlaine and Maurice, of course, she’d published their poems and some of Remedios’ prints. Did they care? Did they notice? Or were they so focused on the organizing efforts in the docks and the palaces, that a Breach into the Fade became commonplace against the horrors of the every day? She hoped she would be able to slip away and find them in their usual cafe, if her heart could stand it, if she could sit and order an affogato without Mahanon at her side.

“Herald?” Imladris opened her eyes. Josephine was smiling at her quizzically. “Do you know how to play Diamondback? Would you like to join us?”

Imladris went to rub her eyes and then remembered she had eyeshadow on. “How long was I asleep?”

“Only a couple hours. Please, come join us.”

She was surrounded by cheats, but only Solas and Josephine did it with grace--or so it seemed, when they finished the fifth bottle of wine. Cassandra got too annoyed for anyone to declare a victor, and they switched instead to telling stories. They made Cassandra tell the story about rescuing the Divine from a dragon. Varric told a story about Hawke winning a duel against a smuggler named Dragon with a dead rooster and a lot of improbable luck. Solas told them a fable about Mythal, as a dragon, falling in love with a sculptor, which Imladris had never heard before. Cullen got up, wobbling only just a bit, and belted out the entirety of “Andraste’s Mabari,” with Varric jumping in, despite the unstated theme of the night being dragons. Josephine told them about the lengthy adventures of a legendary Antivan merchant ship named the Dragon. By the time she had gotten to the end of the story, Imladris had nodded off. She woke up to the smell of Tevinter spiced tea and curried eggs, stiff on the floor of their cabin. Only Solas had made it into a hammock. Cassandra was snoring like a bear, as always. Cullen was curled in the foetal position under Solas’ hammock, and Varric had made himself a nest out of what appeared to be a bearskin. They were nearly there. She would face them down. She had no other choice but to endure.

Val Royeaux, the sparkling jewel of the Orlesian Empire: her people had burnt it to the ground, once, and choked in its ashes. She loved its alienage best of all the ones she had seen. It was the brightest, the wealthiest, the happiest. The elves of Val Royeaux knew their ancestors had owned it, once. The elves of Val Royeaux knew they would take it back--and every single elf had a different plan on how they would do so. But all of them were convinced they would not make the mistakes of the elves of Halamshiral, oh no--because they were the intellectuals of the scattered elven people. They knew best when to revolt. They, in Imladris’ loving opinion, were utterly pompous, and she loved them so. They were so self-satisfied.

The situation with the templars and the Chantry had left Cassandra and the other Andrastians reeling. Cullen, though, was unsurprised, and he did her the grace of not laughing as she utterly failed to comfort a wailing Chantry priest in the marketplace. “They’re so surprised at the corruption,” Imladris complained, as the man began to gibber the Chant to himself, “as if they weren’t the ones who spread the rot themselves.”

Cullen nodded. “Lyrium drives you mad,” he said. “Even the blue. That sort of addiction, it removes you from yourself. The Chantry should have known this would happen. Forcefeed an army poison that makes them numb to fear or shame, gets them  _ hooked _ to it because they cannot stand to think without its song--I left the Order for a reason. And I’m glad I did it before I became--like them.”

Imladris felt a smile tug at her lips. Like Varric, she did like a good redemption story. She had to. She needed to have hope in people. She gazed around the market, suddenly uncertain. She had always avoided the shem part of town; they had everything they needed in the alienage by the docks, or at least they made do. Josephine had gently suggested she and Solas wear Inquisition insignia, and both of them had left their staffs in the rooms of the inn by the alienage. It had been the only inn to accept their party. Josephine seemed excited to be slumming it, and for once Imladris was too emotionally exhausted to take too much offense to such an excited shemlem child. Varric wandered off to meet some business associates, once it was clear the guard was not going to arrest them. Cassandra and Josephine had various meetings arranged with Chantry officials, and Solas had wandered off before Josephine could assign him an escort. She had not been so wise; Cassandra had ordered Cullen to stay close to her, in case Lord Seeker Lucius decided to attack. Imladris had no intention of taking a former templar into the alienage, and very much wanted to be left alone.

“Well, comrade,” Imladris said. “I don’t like this part of town. Why don’t you leave me at the alienage and I’ll meet you at the gate near dusk?”

Cullen hesitated.

“You could go with me, of course,” Imladris said. “But we don’t like templars in alienages, reformed or no. And I was hoping to meet with some very old friends. They will definitely freeze you out.”

Cullen looked unhappy. “I’m sorry this puts you in such a difficult position, Herald. But Josephine asked me, and--”

“I can lose a tail, Cullen,” Imladris smiled. “Let me rephrase this. I have not been alone since we left Haven. I need to visit my mother-in-law. I need to visit the shrine where I was married. And I need to do this alone.”

Cullen caved. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“There’s a cafe near the alienage walls, closer to the docks, that serves both shem and elves. I recommend a sacher torte with a very strong cup of java. I’ll meet you there at dusk. I appreciate this.”

Cullen folded his arms. “I hope you have--” he stopped. “I’m not good at this. I hope you find what you need.” Imladris hoped so, too.

Cullen escorted her to the alienage gates, and excused himself with exquisite courtesy to the nearby cafe. Anxiety plunged in her stomach, and she felt nausea creeping up her throat. Now she was Imladris Ashallin again, not the Inquisition, as Master Dennet called her. The gates were unguarded, a concession the elves had won after their third servant strike last year, though they would be closed and locked at night. The paint on the walls was new: a deep Dalish green. Someone had flanked the gates with paintings of the vhenadahl. The statues of Fen’Harel outside the gates had been clean and polished recently, too, and there was crystal grace potted between his paws. She recognized the sculptor: a Dalish elf from Clan Ralaferin, who had lately been wandering the Emerald Graves, though she had heard a rumor that they were delving deeper into the Arbor Wilds, to get away from the shemlen war. Briala had brought some good to the elves of Orlais. Imladris took a deep breath and patted the statue of Fen’Harel for good luck, and entered her old home.  


* * *

Val Royeaux now had the most elves out of all the cities in Orlais, since Halamshiral burned. Apartments teetered precariously against the walls. There was only one large thoroughfare--the Walk of the Chevalier, which led directly to the Vhenadahl and the center of the alienage. Small streets a cart could barely press through veined from there--easy to block, but difficult to navigate. Unlike the alienages of Ferelden, this one was kept bright and scrupulously clean. Every floor boasted two or three windows. Every window boasted a planter. It was beautiful. Sea salt wafted on the breeze, and as always, people were singing. There were Andrastians singing in choir at their church, there was an old woman playing a hymn to Mythal at the foot of the Vhenadahl, there was a man, Dalish by his clothes, playing with a fiddle and twisting both melodies into one, at the Cafe du Mythal. Imladris paused. She knew him--that was her brother!

“Revas Baranduillen!” she yelled across the piazza. “Isa’malin!” The man turned around, and it was him, June’s vallaslin across his face, the small scar on his lips, the missing tip of his right ear. She dashed over and held open her hands, and Revas Baranduillen Lavellan placed his fiddle on the cafe table and swept her into a deep, long hug. She sobbed a little in his embrace. He smelled, of course, like the road, but also like the polish they used on leather armor.

“Asa’malin,” he murmured. He kissed the top of her head. “Deshanna sent me running to get you. If you don’t think we can escape here, I brought enough blood lotus to knock out an army.”

Imladris pulled away from him. She still held onto his arms, unwilling to let him go. “Revas, I have to stay.” She pulled off the glove of her left hand and proffered it. The mark glowed a sick green. “Look. This is the only thing that affects the Rifts. I can’t stop in good conscience. They’d hunt us down if I stopped.”

Revas frowned. He looked like her, of course, they had the same parents; they had the same hooked nose and high cheekbones, the same brown-red hair, the same light brown eyes. It was so good to be with someone who looked like her. “We rented a room at the Vhenadahl Inn, close to the docks. Let’s talk there?” She held onto his arm and they picked their way through the winding cobble streets.

She kept expecting herself to see a shade of Mahanon slipping past. She kept expecting to hear his laugh echoing from the roof of their favorite cafe, long since closed. She kept expecting every other elf to look like him, to see echoes of the two of them in every well-patched pair. But this was not the Fade, she was entrenched in the physical world. Mahanon was not here anymore.

Her brother asked, “Memories?”

Imladris closed her eyes for a second, and they stopped. She leaned against the building, and tried to collect herself. “I thought it would be harder. I thought I’d be seeing him more. But all there is, there’s this  _ lack _ . It’s been three years. I thought this emptiness would be easier.”

Revas twisted into a smile. “You contradicted yourself. Death isn’t a dialectic, Imladris. You don’t need to synthesize this. Make this productive.”

Imladris put her hands to her eyes. Her left palm twinged, stiff as always. “You’ve been talking theory with Briala, haven’t you?”

“Oh,” Revas said solemnly, “I have so much to tell you. And you won’t like a single bit of it.”

They got to the inn and Imladris saw Revas was like, she didn’t like a bit of what she saw: the entirety of the aravel unit she had under her command, right in the frontlines of danger. Olivine, her favorite sister-in-law and half-dwarf, had set up a camera lucida in the corner, and was taking portraits of a long line of curious elves. Mouse, the only human man she could admit loving, her favorite Rivaini Blight refugee, was unpacking goods for sale--textiles, amulets, little mechanical wonders made out of ironbark that House Cadash collaborated on. Gadden Cadash was demonstrating some of their clockwork toys to a crowd of gobsmacked children. Rope, an elf from the alienage in Wycombe, was explaining testily to the proprietor of the inn that Olivine was not, in fact, performing a blood magic ritual to steal people’s souls when taking their image. Imladris pinched the bridge of her nose in annoyance. Samahl, Mouse’s son by her sister, was tuning his lute while Malika, Revas and Olivine’s more sensible daughter, flirted outrageously with a local girl. And there, in the corner, was her mother-in-law, Manon, in the blue dress Mahanon had made for her, before he died. She took a step back into the doorway, seizing the half-second before anyone noticed her, threw her shoulders back down, and said, “A trading mission to Val Royeaux? Are you all insane?” Mythal enansel, at least they hadn’t brought her daughters with them--if they weren’t watching her daughters, who was?

Rope folded her arms and smiled. “Is that an honest question?” And Revas had her arm around her and was guiding her into the room which was suddenly too hot, too dark, too stifling, but Gadden was already opening the shutters, which were cut straight into the wall, a Val Royeaux secret, to let the blue in. Someone sat her down, and Manon had her arms around her now, stroked her cheek, “Oh, da’vhenan, what happened to your face?” The strangers were leaving now, though a reunion was not a strange sight to any elf in Thedas, every week someone saw someone return from slavery, from servitude, from the Grey Wardens. Everyone could see the pain they carried, painted across their face like the vallaslin, like a scar. Elves did not get privacy, in the alienages, in the clans; and the ones who sought it were often lost. Unmoored, Imladris was buoyed by her people.

“Perhaps this was not the best of ideas,” Olivine said, in Dalish.

Gadden snorted. “At least we’re making money off of it.” He began to repack their wares.

Imladris realized she had her head in her hands. “Forgive me, I’m a little overwhelmed.” It was good to speak her language again. She was shaking. “I didn’t want--the humans mean well, but there’s something even more rotten than usual with the Chantry, and the last thing I wanted was for this to be traced back to you. Whatever they are blaming me for. It’d be safer to stay in Wycombe.”

Rope was at her other side. “Nowhere’s safe. The Duke of Wycombe has been sending for more templars and chevaliers to come to the city. Celene sent him troops--the Ambassador thinks she’s planning on fleeing there, and rallying Chantry support in the Free Marches, if she loses Dirthavaren.”

Imladris tilted her head back. “She controls the ports. And Nevarra and Antiva support her claim over Gaspard.” She exhaled sharply. “Well, shit. Is that why you’re all here? Who does Briala want us to kill now?” She snapped back into herself: easy, when there was an ask, a purpose, a mission. She was stuck thinking in threes. She needed the rhythm. She wanted to sink into the people around her and be utterly, utterly alone. But it was a perfect set-up: dwarven traders from House Cadash, the human who helped financed the expedition, and their Dalish mercenary escorts, nevermind that most of expedition were related by blood and the dwarves were marked by June’s vallaslin, the human by Sylaise.

“I also want Sister Nightingale’s offer in writing,” Gadden said bluntly. “Never trust a Chantry sister, salroka. Except the one who broke you out of prison, I guess she’s okay.”

Manon said gently, “Perhaps you may tell me this story? About the nice Chantry sister. If she exists. If you feel ready, da’vhenan. Perhaps we can adjourn somewhere for lunch?”

Gadden took her aravel to the vhenadahl, where they would set up their goods, while Olivine and Revas stayed at the inn to continue to operate the camera. Rope went off to scout--she said she’d meet Imladris in her room later, to take her to Briala’s agent, yes the entire city knew the inn where the Herald of Mythal was staying, yes Mythal, if we’re going to make you into a god we’re going to make sure you belong to the right pantheon, what the fuck do they think is on your face, Andraste’s holy tree? Andrastians mostly burned trees, didn’t they? 

Most of the action in Val Royeaux’s alienage occurred either around the vhenadahl, where the market was set up, or on the rooftop cafes. Manon led them up a winding staircase to her most discreet spot--the Arla du’ Harillan. Imladris supposed the name could have been more unsubtle--they could have named it “House of the Rebel” in Orlesian rather than botched Elvhen, but the Orlesians were so chauvinistic and Briala had enough of a chokehold on their intelligence network that it passed muster. The decor was understated. The color scheme of the alienage stuck to its soft greens and browns, rather than the gem colors of the human city, and this cafe had jasmine vines twining the lattice screens that offered some protection from the wind. A large mirror in a golden frame stood in the far corner, framed by howling wolves. Orlesians, elves or no, were never subtle.

“Our Ambassador is taking the joke a little too far,” Imladris said, jerking her head towards the eluvian. Manon sat down at a table and signaled the waiter.

“Bring us some Rivaini coffee and the Dalish whisky Clan Lavellan just sold you,” Manon said. “And two meat pies.”

“Not ram,” Imladris said hastily. “I’ve been eating nothing but that for months now.”

Manon laced her fingers together and smiled at her. “Well, da’len. I don’t know what you were expecting. It was your idea.”

Imladris sighed. She had been doing a lot of that lately. “When I said we should name our mien’harel Fen’Harel’s Teeth, I didn’t think everyone would get into it like this. It was supposed to be a joke. No one actually puts humans in nail-studded breeches. It’s much easier to set them on fire, if you want to make a point. Or convince their children to set them on fire,” she remembered that one bitter runaway Circle mage from the Trevelyan family who led the charge in annexing her family’s estate for their workers. Mahanon and the Mouse had been very proud of organizing that particular action. Did Evelyn Trevelyan survive the Breach? Was she killed by her own templar sister? When she returned to the Hinterlands, she could find out.

Manon looked at her fondly. “Slow Arrow, you do our people proud.” She reached across the table and took Imladris’ hand, the one with the mark. It sparked lightly at her touch. “Now tell me, da’vhenan. What has happened to you?”

Imladris laughed.

* * *

What has happened to me? Three years ago they arrested my husband and I for apostasy. They took turns torturing one in front of the other, to try to get us to confess--to what, I still don’t know, there was so much that we did. I killed the shemlen who hurt my people. I hunted slavers. Mahanon built schools and wrote songs. We refounded two cities, for the Dalish and the elves. We smuggled lyrium and escorted House Cadash, when they needed it. I killed whomever House Cadash asked me to kill. Mahanon organized the dockworkers with whom he worked to strike. Even the shemlen followed us. We started a journal for the People:  _ Fen’Harel’s Teeth _ . It became an organization. It went beyond the elves, and took in the casteless dwarves and the humans fleeing the Blight. When Wycombe closed its gates to the refugees, I convinced Clan Lavellan to take them in, as House Cadash took us in, time and time again, from the fall of Arlathan to the purging of our elders. Mahanon was brilliant--he took the aravel system, the Dalish way of dividing the clan into self-sufficient units, and turned it into a way to  _ organize _ . There was so much he did, that I did, that we did together. I do not know what it was specifically, what made them finally arrest us, but whatever it was, we did not tell them. Even when they cut up my face. Even when they cut off his ears and left them in my cell, for me to watch rot.

The Chantry sister Gadden spoke of is Sister Therese. I hope she is still alive. She washed my face. She told Olivine what happened. She brewed the herbs, to make sure what the chevaliers did did not take root. She even smuggled out what I thought would be my last words. You know, she would sing the Canticle of Shartan to us in the cells, when we could hear them torturing the others. I remember the screams of the women less strong than me: like they were being burned alive. Maybe they were. I think that’s funny, almost: burning apostates just like they killed Andraste. Did you know Andraste was a mage? That was what I found in the libraries of the University. But we are not speaking of that.

After they killed Mahanon, they took me out to the woods beyond the city and raped me and left me to die. A farmer found me, a woman named Tana. She hid me in her stables and took care of me. It was winter. Rope found me, eventually, and she took me back to Rivendell. I was a stranger to myself, but my family brought me back to myself: changed, but I remain Imladris. I did not surrender myself to Terror, or Despair, or Rage. Eventually I was able to leave the Friendly Homes without fear. Eventually I returned to Wycombe, and I walked around the main square with my hair drawn back. Let them know what they did. Let them know that I will always endure.

I continued to write. As you know. When this ridiculous shem war started, Briala asked me to start killing for her again. It helped, a little. We started maneuvering to depose Duke Antoine. Even the merchants hate him, and I am hopeful that we can remove his entire aristocracy with the support of the elves, dwarves, and humans of Free Wycombe. That’s our Common name, for the vhenallin--the Friends of the People. We are all the People, in the struggle for Free Wycombe. We sheltered mages from Ostwick and Kirkwall. We took in Anders, who is doing good work healing our hunters. The chevaliers try to raid the villages we have established, in the Golden Wood; we raid their estates back--a petty war, and we are deadlocked, but I know it will change soon. Either we push them out, or they kill us.

And then we heard rumors about an Exalted March of Kirkwall, and what happened to the Dalish clans of Orlais. Briala suggested we petition the Divine directly to send her Seekers to investigate the Duke. She would inevitably refuse, and we could use that as propaganda to convince the rest of the elves in the cities of Orlais, Ferelden, and the Free Marches to finally break with the Chantry. Deshanna nominated me, and I decided it was time to venture forth again. I went to the Conclave.

* * *

The light was growing old and gold--still a few more hours til dusk, until she had to meet with Cullen. Imladris took another sip of her whisky, felt the burn bring her back to the present. She looked at her mother-in-law flatly. “I do not know if I’m going to survive this. I know Deshanna sent my aravel to bring me back. But I have to see this through. This Breach threatens us all. What’s the use of organizing a revolution if the sky swallows us whole?”

Manon was silent. She fiddled with her glass. Finally, she said, “You don’t have to do this alone, my daughter. I can go with you.”

Imladris could feel tears building up her throat. Muddily, she coughed. “No, no, you love Val Royeaux--I can’t--”

Manon got up and took her into her arms. The cafe was utterly deserted; Gadden must have paid them off for this. She buried her face into the crook of Manon’s neck. She seized, trying to keep the tears back, and choked, “I’m sorry I couldn’t--”

“I am so proud,” Manon said rustily, “I am so glad my son met you. My wild Dalish daughter-in-law. You do the People proud.” Imladris felt her move her hand, Manon leaned her own face into Imladris’ hair, Imladris could feel her tears mingling with her own. They shuddered. “Oh, my baby,” Manon wept. “My son.”

Grief seemed as endless and factual as the Waking Sea. She cried until she could not think. She cried until she was dry-heaving in her mother-in-law’s arms, and someone was pushing a pitcher of water in front of her, she knew vaguely who it was, Felassan? Manon had gotten snot in her hair, but she had utterly soaked the front of her dress, so they were even. Her head was splitting, everything ached, and Felassan passed her a cool cloth to wash her face. She took a shuddering breath, and opened her eyes.

Felassan had his hands over Manon’s face, green light gently glowing between them. He was healing her headache, the inflammation of her eyes and nose. He turned to her and smiled. “You next?”

Not trusting herself to speak, Imladris nodded. His magic was soothing. She coughed, a bit embarrassed. “You won’t tell Briala that, I hope.” She was proud that it came out a statement and not a question.

Felassan said, “What happens between a woman and her mother-in-law who have not seen each other since…” He looked at Manon questioningly.

“In fourteen years,” Manon said rustily, then swept an hand over her eyes again. “Since before my first granddaughter was born.” She got up quickly and kissed Imladris on the top of her head. “Excuse me, da’vhenan. I think it’s time for me to say my prayers.” She left the two of them alone.

Felassan waited for Manon to leave before speaking again. He sat next to her, a little too close, but not quite touching, and poured himself a generous measure of the whisky Manan had ordered. He drank it quickly. Imladris could feel that familiar heat, the question inside it. Could she? It had been so long. When he shifted closer so they were touching, she did not move away. He said, “Now, my friend, our Ambassador has a request for you.”

Imladris felt that familiar mix of irritation and fondness that she always felt when she thought about Briala. “She always does,” she complained. “She saved my life five times, and now it’s as if I’m always in her debt.” She laughed. “As she is in mine. She couldn’t ask me in person, could she.”

Felassan paused. Carefully, he said, “She’s at the front. One of her people in the Chantry let us know you were coming. And I wanted to see you.”

Imladris had met Briala’s friend during her first year in Val Royeaux, before she and Mahanon had figured out quite what was between them. Homesick for the Dalish, she had asked Briala if she had an idea where the halla grazed, near Val Royeaux. Briala had introduced her to Felassan instead, likely frightened of her grand Dalish experiment running off. She had liked his irreverence. They hunted together, when she could sneak out of the city, to keep her in practice. He had brought her to some of the elven ruins near the city, told her stories of what he’d seen in the Fade there. They had fucked occasionally, which had been fun. Even Mahanon hadn’t made her laugh during sex so much. He had elaborate arguments for the favorite position of every Creator, even Fen’Harel--Fen’Harel had been the most obvious--and he had acted on them with skill and vigor. Mahanon had enjoyed sleeping with him, too. She had gotten quite an Orlesian education, in Val Royeaux; Deshanna thought her utterly depraved when she came home.

She looked at him. Elves aged slowly, but even he was starting to line, gray in his red hair. He had put it all in one simple braid. “I hadn’t heard from you in so long,” Imladris said. “I thought you were dead.”

Felassan looked very satisfied. “Yeah,” he said smugly. “A lot of people think that.”

Imladris waited for him to explain himself.

Felassan lifted his head and grinned. “Let’s just say...I plucked an arrow from the Dread Wolf’s jaws.”

Imladris groaned. “How many arrow puns are we going to make today?”

“I don’t know, lethallin. You’re the one who stole my name for your magazine.”

“It’s a good joke,” she said defensively. “The slow arrow that slew the monster that killed all the elders. The shem killed all the elders of Clan Lavellan, I am the arrow already released in revenge.”

“You have no right to insult my puns,” Felassan said, waving a hand at her. “Not when your entire political moment is named after a joke I made to Briala, that she took far too literally.”

“I can’t believe she actually believed you, when you told her the Dalish did that,” Imladris shook her head. “It’s hard to believe Briala was ever so...trusting.”

Felassan looked sad for a second, then shook himself out of it. “Well, Slow Arrow. We all learned better, didn’t we?” He hesitated for a second. “I read your prison letters. I--I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. For the funeral. Or to help with your girls.”

She leaned against him. He put his arm around her. “The best thing I’ve done,” Imladris said softly, “is making sure the momentum of this movement continues without me. Without any individual. We’ve built enough of a network that even if I’m killed, or Briala, or Fenris--our mien’harel will happen regardless. Elvhenan does not need to be led to their own liberation.”

“Wise woman,” Felassan chuckled. “I wish I’d met you in my youth. Might’ve lost less, if you and Briala had been around.” He was pensive. He never spoke about his past. Even Mahanon had not been able to tease more out of him. All she knew was that he was much older than he looked--true enough of many elves--and that most of his friends were dead, and he had a perverse love for Fen’Harel stories. She wanted to kiss him. An odd thought: when was the last time she had kissed a man? Since Mahanon. Three years. It had been a very long time, without. A horrible thought: did she want him because they had shared Mahanon? There were worse reasons to want someone. She bit her lip. She had to go back to the Inquisition, but they were planning on staying a week in the city.

“How long are you staying?” she asked, trying to be casual.

“How long are you?” he asked back. They looked at each other, and Imladris felt the heat rise in her face.

“I have to go back to the Inquisition at dusk,” she said. She cursed herself: how many times have you seen this man naked? There was absolutely no reason to be nervous around him. “We’re staying a week before returning to Haven. Perhaps we can…”

Felassan looked infinitely amused. “We could,” he said. “If you’re up for it.”

“After I kill whatever Briala wants me to,” she offered.

“Oh yes. Murder comes first,” Felassan agreed, and that made her grab him and kiss him soundly. She could feel him trying not to laugh, so she bit him.

“By the Dread Wolf,” she said fervently, “I needed that.” She put her head on the table and started laughing. “Fuck, I have been--I have felt every emotion possible today, Felassan. Not tonight. I have to go kill some shem.”

Felassan patted her back. “Well, at least I made you laugh.” He sounded uncertain. “Are you alright?”

“ _ No _ . Sweet Sylaise, no.” She straightened. “I haven’t had sex since.” She cleared her throat. “Just so you know. I don’t know if I can.”

Felassan brushed a thumb gently down the scar near her jaw. She closed her eyes at the touch. “Whatever you are comfortable with. No strings attached, just--fun. I know what it’s like. It can.” He hesitated, darkened suddenly, and looked away. “It takes time, Fen’Harel knows. I’d be honored to help you get this part of yourself back.”

Imladris looked into those curious, almost-purple eyes. “You can tell me about it, if you like,” she offered. “You know you can trust me.”

He laughed. “Maybe one day. I do trust you. More than you realize, ma falon.” He traced her lips again, and Imladris pressed a sudden grateful kiss to the palm of his hand. She was not alone. They were not alone. “I do not carry this burden alone. Briala knows. And I’ll tell you, when it’s right. Who my people were. How they were lost...how I got my name, too. But not tonight. Or this week.”

Imladris realized why she liked him, why she loved her friend so dearly. Every intimacy she revealed with him, he mirrored back, without putting either of them in a place where one was more naked and vulnerable than the other. “Whatever you are comfortable with, ma falon,” she echoed back, and kissed him for the sheer enjoyment of it.

They caught back up on their misadventures. Felassan was utterly amused at her predicament with the Inquisition and thought the description of her companions hilarious. He was particularly entertained by her description of Solas: “Every time I think I like him,” Imladris complained, “he says something so utterly offensive and  _ superior _ I understand why his mother named him Pride. He called Orzammar a ‘severed arm thrashing in its own blood,’ the utter  _ nerve _ of him. But he has such a poetic way of speaking, I can almost forgive him for the--”

“Stick up his ass?” offered Felassan. He looked absolutely gleeful. “A stick made out of a mixture of desolation and self-satisfaction that makes you unable to be too mad at him, because you can see his pain so nakedly? Which sometimes just comes across as constipation?”

Imladris narrowed her eyes at him. “You know him,” she said accusingly. “You know him and you let me speak about him because you wanted to know what I think about him first.”

Felassan froze. “I--yes. But I’d rather not talk about it. It’s complicated.”

Imladris drew herself up and shifted away from him. “I have to trust him with my life,” she said coolly. “If there’s anything I should know about him, you ought to tell me.”

Felassan closed his eyes. “I have known Solas for most of my life,” he said slowly, “and in that time I have known him to always act with honor, though there have been times when that has not been immediately clear. If he promised to stay with the Inquisition until the Breach is closed, he will keep that promise. He can be a stubborn fool,” Felassan flashed a rueful smile, “more than you’ll ever realize. But he is the greatest man I know.”

Imladris looked at Felassan doubtfully. “The greatest?” Imladris could see cleverest, certainly, but great? He had dignity in spades, and occasionally a sense of humor, but Solas was not what she thought of when she thought of great men.

Felassan grimaced. “You remind me of him,” he said, “and Briala. More Briala, honestly. Same kind of stubborness. Inability to listen to other people, unless they see what you’ve been saying themselves.” He looked mischievous. “You’ll be good for him, I think. Like you are for Briala. That old wolf has no idea what he’s in for.” He laughed, delighted. “Don’t tell him you know me. It’s less fun that way. All in good time, my friend. The next time we see each other, maybe.  _ That _ would be fun. The look on his face would be...” Felassan put his arm around her again, pressed a kiss against her cheek. “I would owe you, oh, all my memories in the Fade of the ancient city of Arlathan, if you let me be the one to tell him I know you.” He chuckled to himself. 

Imladris frowned. They spoke the same way about the Fade, she realized. She should have known there was something familiar about him. She crossed her arms. “Well, you’re being delightfully vague. Far be it for me to ruin your fun.”

“Serannasan ma,” Felassan said formally, and then grinned. “I look forward to demonstrating my gratitude.”

* * *

Felassan walked Imladris back to the vhenadahl, where her aravel was waiting. They paused before the final bend into the plaza, to take a moment before she returned to her family.

“I’ve got to go back to Briala tonight,” he said. “But--tomorrow night, I’ll have a room on the fifth floor of the last house on the Halla Walk. It has a statue of Fen’Harel in front of it.” He touched her face again. “Be careful. That magic you carry...if your hand starts bothering you, send a message to Briala. I’ll come when I can. I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into this. But also relieved that out of everyone I have met in the past twenty years, that it’s you.”

Imladris smiled. “Your faith in me is reassuring,” she said. “I hope I do it justice.”

“I know you will.” He kissed her firmly. “Be safe, ma falon. Nuva mar’shos’lahn’en ir’tel’dera Fen’Harel,” he said in Elvhen. “May the Dread Wolf never hear your footsteps, when you go hunting.” He walked back towards the Cafe du Harillan and the eluvian, and Imladris touched her mouth. It was good to have a lover again, to have the promise of a good fuck.

Revas raised an eyebrow at her when she emerged from the alley but said nothing. She caught the Mouse exchanging a look with Rope, though. “So Briala sent Felassan,” Revas said.

Imladris tried to look arch. “How do you know?”

“He already briefed Rope. And you look...happy.” Imladris was embarrassed, how she felt towards Felassan was nothing romantic, was it that obvious she had a date? Revas backpedaled quickly at the look on her face, “I’m not implying anything! I know you and Felassan--fuck, I’ve been fucking up today. Uh. I just hope you don’t stop yourself from taking moments of peace where you can find it, my sister. Because I know there hasn’t been much of that, since you left for the Conclave.”

Imladris fixed her face. “Well. He’s familiar.” She desperately wanted out of this conversation.

Revas looked at her ruefully. “Yes. I know. You three weren’t particularly subtle about it. Just because you lock a door doesn’t mean we all can’t hear what you’re doing behind it.”

“I’m appropriately embarrassed now, brother. How about we talk about your ridiculous courtship of Olivine instead?”

“Just giving you shit. I’m sorry. Gadden wants to go talk to the Inquisition ambassador. We want to see them. Know what we’re dealing with. If it’s not too much. Since you don’t want to leave.”

Imladris paused. How would the Inquisition inner circle react to her family? Revas, who used music and blood magic, and his wife Olivine Cadash, who was half-dwarf and half-elvhen? Their elder daughter Malika, an awful flirt, a dwarfblooded elf who could dream? Varric at least would be charming. Solas would be reserved and polite in his own way, but offensive with his bald questions. How would he respond to Mouse, a human with Sylaise’s vallaslin? Or his son, her nephew Samahl, half-Rivaini and half-Lavellan, the child of her Grey Warden sister? Rope would stay quiet, not wanting to risk her unfortunate tendency to put her foot in her mouth--she’d taken on the nom de guerre from the shem saying “enough rope to hang yourself.” Cullen would be so very guilty around them all, and Gadden would immediately seize on it, and Josephine would get passive aggressive and the two of them would have a blast, actually, bargaining with each other. It might be fun.

Imladris said, “Why not? I don’t really want to be alone with them. Let’s see what happens.”

Revas smiled, relieved. “Then lead the way, Herald of Mythal.”

“By the Dread Wolf, Revas, don’t call me that.” But she gathered them anyway, and led them to the coffee shop where Cullen was waiting. The former templar was deep in a game of chess with Solas of all people. She was surprised to see them together. He had avoided the templar recruits in Haven. They both looked up.

Imladris put on her best Inquisition face. “Hello, comrades,” she intoned, then smiled crookedly. “Meet my family. They were visiting  _ my _ mother-in-law, apparently.”

“She’s a very nice lady,” Gadden said. He was tall for a dwarf, like most of House Cadash, who all looked a little elfblooded. They had been exiled from Orzammar for sheltering elves when Arlathan fell; they probably were elfblooded. “Now, your Chantry sister’s letter to the Free People of Wycombe said you could cut us a deal--”

“Is this really the right time?” Imladris said, as Cullen said simultaneously, “ _ You’re _ Keeper Istimaethoriel?”

“Yes,” Gadden said with dignity. Rope smothered a laugh. Imladris sighed.

“ _ No _ ,” Olivine said, exasperated, and pulled him back. “Excuse me. Let’s try this again. We appreciate you sending scouts, but when word reached Wycombe that the Inquisition would be sailing for Val Royeaux, we thought it best to see how our sister was faring ourselves. She is the First of our People. Think of  _ that _ as the champion of a city--like your Hawke is to Kirkwall, Imladris is to the Free People of Wycombe.”

Imladris hesitated. She was known amongst the elves, thanks to Briala and the success of slaver-hunters of Wycombe; but she was not nearly as notorious, or important, as the Champion of Kirkwall. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“I would,” Mouse said mildly. He stepped forward. He was easily the tallest of the men, and radiated the quiet grace that had earned him his nom de guerre. “The offers your scout made seemed--unrealistic. And unwise to trust to letters. We decided it was best to conduct these negotiations in person. And it’s not safe for anyone to travel alone, with the war. Humans against elves, templars against mages, and whatever these Orlesians are fighting about now.”

“So we brought everyone,” Revas said. He stared at Cullen, unimpressed. “The Free People of Wycombe do not let our kin wander unattended, templar. And harm to one of us is harm to us all. We will not see our kin dishonored.”

Solas was watching them, curiosity plain on his face. She could see the resemblance with Felassan, though it was not close: the eyes were the same, and the shape of the face and ears. Of course they were from the same clan. He stood up and offered Revas a salute over his heart. Revas inclined his head. “Andaran atish’an, lethallin,” he greeted them. “Asa’malin mar ethem Inquisition. Shemlem myathem,” he paused. “Tel’nuem elvhenan. Or they try not to,” he switched to Common. “They mean well, and they have shown us a rare respect.” Imladris mouthed at him: thank you. His eyes softened, a bit: the least I could do.

Revas nodded. “Your Elvhen is better than mine, lethallin,” he eased, though he did not take his eyes off Cullen. Rope was fiddling with the dagger at her belt. Imladris touched her arm to make her stop. “I trust my sister’s judgement in her companions, though I do not like the circumstances that brought our People to them.” He turned back to Imladris. “Can your ambassador get us a pass to stay the night?”

Imladris smiled. “Josephine convinced a quarter of the Chantry mothers that a Dalish First is the Herald of Andraste. I have absolutely no doubt in her ability to get the city guard to let you stay the night.”

Orlesians stared as they went past, but she was used to that. Dalish clans often traded at the Val Royeaux alienage; it was not uncommon to see halla pulling an aravel towards the city walls. But outside the walls? Imladris scoffed. Half of Thedas consigned her people to children’s tales: but here they were, thriving. The Hero of Ferelden was Dalish from Clan Alerion. The Champion of Kirkwall had a Dalish wife, though poor Merrill would never find a clan to call her own. And she would close the Breach. Shartan might have been chiselled out of the Chantry history, but the Dalish were clawing their way back to the forefront of the times. They had sacked Val Royeaux once before. She caught a chevalier eying Malika, who was curvier than most elves and taller than most dwarves. She glared at him. If Briala’s gamble worked, they would sack it again.

Mouse took the aravel to the inn’s stables, and gestured at Samahl to follow. They would guard the goods they had left to trade. Imladris personally trusted the Inquisition scouts they had watching the mounts, but said nothing to undermine her kin. She could hear Cassandra shouting as Cullen opened the door and gestured for Solas to go in first. Solas quirked an almost-smile at her, and waited for her to go in first. She wondered if they had planned this, if Josephine had drilled them in the hierarchy of the Inner Circle.

“You cannot use the Inquisition as cover for your own shady dealings!” Cassandra slammed both hands onto the table in the tavern.

“Seeker, I am  _ bankrolling _ half of your scouts’ salaries,” Varric snapped back. “I don’t see why there’s a problem, if we take a couple crates of Orlesian silk dresses to Jader with us. We have plenty of space on the ship!”

“We have a  _ single cabin _ on the ship,” Cassandra hissed. “I will not have you besmirching the Herald’s good name with your greed.”

“Really?” Varric said flatly. “You’re calling me greedy now? Didn’t your etiquette master teach you better than to call a master of the Merchants’ Guild that?”

Cassandra spat, “ _ Ugh _ .” She closed her eyes. Imladris counted with her as she very obviously tried to soothe her own temper: one, two, three. “You are right. I apologize. That was wrong of me. But you must understand, we are in a delicate position with the Chantry. And while I am not afraid to be called a heretic, I have the protection of the Pentaghast family. The Herald--”

“Is standing right here,” Imladris interjected. “With my family. Who have come to open negotiations with Josephine.”

The children--barely children now, both in their late teens, giggled. Malika raised a hand. “Hi,” she said. Samahl elbowed her. Imladris sighed deeply.

Revas said in Elvhen, “At least they understand you face more danger. Do they understand it’s their fault?”  
Solas, mildly, replied, “I believe she does.”

Imladris cleared her throat. “Well. Perhaps we should all stick to Common,” she said pointedly. “Since Solas does not know our dialect of Dalish, and Cassandra doesn’t know any Elvhen.” She turned to Cassandra. “Do you know when Josephine is coming back?”

Cassandra drew herself up. “By dinnertime. I will let a servant know that your family is staying for the meal. Are they staying the night as well?”

“Yes,” said Gadden.

“No,” said Mouse.

The two men, dwarf and human, glanced at each other, and then at Imladris. She sighed. As First of Clan Lavellan, she often had to arbitrate disagreements within the clan and then as representative of Lavellan amongst the dwarves of House Cadash, elves of Free Wycombe, and humans who called themselves their friends. It was still irritating to be the tie-breaker to every vote. She had never believed much in the power of great men; only by working together did anything interesting ever happen. That was what Briala and Mahanon had taught her. But sometimes, exasperating and irritating, it felt like these people could do nothing without her say.

Imladris said, “I wouldn’t mind company. It’s been so long. We can set up camp on Manon’s roof, I suppose.” Cassandra made a sound. Imladris raised an eyebrow. “Or perhaps the Inquisition would prefer its agents all stay under one roof?”

Cassandra said, “The chevaliers control the gates of the alienage. We cannot protect you from their blades there.”

This irritated her. She had taken care of herself and her family all four decades of her life. As a Dalish mage, she had survived the vagaries of Val Royeaux, before Briala rose so high. Imladris smiled thinly. “I’ve lived through six chevalier graduation ceremonies, Cassandra. I don’t need protection.” She saw Revas raise his head and smirk. “But if you ever want to fight a chevalier with me--that, I’d welcome.”

“I did not mean to imply you were incapable of protecting yourself,” Cassandra protested stiffly, “but--”

Imladris was already turning away. She could feel Cassandra’s annoyance grow. “Let’s set up our bedrolls on the roof, it’s cooler there. We can catch the sunset. We might as well invite Manon; Gadden, do you remember where she lives? Since you all descended upon  _ my _ mother-in-law. Uninvited.” She counted dinner guests: Cassandra, Varric, Cullen, Josephine, Solas, Gadden, Revas, Olivine, Mouse, Samahl, Malika, Manon, and herself included. She almost forgot Rope, still casing the target with Felassan. “Fifteen, then. When Josephine had originally provisioned for a dinner of six.” She gestured to the innkeeper, a half-elf, who was openly gaping at the crowd. “Never seen so many half-breeds in one place, have you? Welcome to Clan Lavellan. We’ll need a boy to watch the aravel and the halla, and an Inquisition scout to watch the boy watching the halla. Dinner should be set up to the roof by 7.” Everyone was looking at her. She waved an irritated hand. “What are you waiting for? You know what you need to do.”

“Yes ma’am!” the innkeeper said, nervously patting down his apron. He bustled off to the kitchen. Gadden snorted and grabbed Revas by the arm.

“We’ll get Manon. Come, be my elvhen shield.” They headed towards the alienage.

Solas hummed slightly. “I’ll speak with Charter.” He did not leave the room hastily, but his step was too measured to be comfortable. Imladris was irritated, and hoped to herself he would give her a reason to lash back at him. Felassan had called him great; Imladris, right now, was thinking him barely polite. She had enough reason to realize that she was irritated merely because she was stressed, but not enough strength of mind to swallow the feeling. 

Cullen was staring at her. “You do know how to run...things, don’t you?”

Imladris turned to him. “I was voted First for a reason.” She turned back to her family. “What are you all waiting for? Let’s get things set up before Josephine comes back.”

By the time Josephine came bustling back to the inn, Imladris had gotten her family and advisers to set up a dinner table for fifteen on the roof of the inn, with a makeshift camp in the far corner, under a canopy. Varric, Olivine, Gadden, and Cullen were loudly arguing about which Free Marcher state had the worst weather. Cassandra and Solas were helping set the table. She herself had the children helping her with setting out candles and was warding the mosquitos away. The twilight was turquoise, and the water shone under the moons. Even the ghastly green light of the Breach felt muted under the candlelight. Manon came up, accompanied by Gadden and Revas. She had put makeup on and changed her clothes, and had pinned up her graying hair in a braid and woven silk flowers into it--a very classic Val Royeaux elvhen widow. Imladris crossed over and took her hands, and silently Manon squeezed them.

Josephine paused and beamed. “This is lovely! And First Lavellan’s family! I apologize that we were not prepared to receive you in advance, it is such a lovely surprise to meet the family of such a revered member of Inquisition!”

Manon leaned into her. “Revered?” she whispered.

“She’s Antivan,” Imladris whispered back.

Gadden took a step forward, and cleared his throat. “We’re grateful for the opportunity to see our sister, whenever we can.” Imladris tried to remember how exactly she and Gadden were related--her brother Revas married Olivine, Olivine shared a grandfather with him, she thought, what was it his name? Marmo Cadash? It was something ridiculous

Josephine looked at her surreptitiously, trying to figure out the dwarfblood.

“We’re not all literally related,” Rope said exasperatedly. “It’s an expression. We’re in the same aravel--trading and hunting band. Think of us as a trading band. Revas and Imladris have the same parents, of course, and I think Gadden and Olivine are cousins of some sort, but yeah. Not every single elf you know is a cousin. Our kids would be a lot more fucked up than they already are, if we interbred as much as you shem think we do.”

Malika coughed conspicuously. Samahl thumped her, loudly, on the back.

Imladris sighed. “Well, I suppose we can explain how we all met over dinner. Let’s sit?”

Despite the difficulty her brother and niece had sitting up straight and politely in a chair, Imladris’ relatives appointed themselves nicely around the table the Inquisition set. Revas reframed from being passive-aggressive in Dalish, and Gadden for once let others speak. Malika didn’t even laugh too much; she was at that stage in her teenage years where anything an adult said that was incomprehensible to her was immediate fodder for scorn. Josephine, Cullen, and Varric were wonderful. Solas and Cassandra stayed mostly silent, though both behaved themselves, even when asked to account for themselves. Olivine spoke generally about their trading mission--they were advertising a refined invention of House Cadash and Clan Lavellan, the camera lucida. Ironbark made it light enough to be portable, and the mages of Clan Lavellan were playing with new chemical compounds to make the film the image developed in cheaper and less noxious. They had been planning to go to Val Royeaux in any case, travelling through Orzammar. Imladris didn’t believe a word of it, but it was safer for everyone if she did not know whom they were speaking, what they were organizing. Briala had to be involved.

“So,” Josephine smiled, filling Olivine’s wine glass. “I must ask--how did you all meet the Herald? She speaks so little of her days before joining the Inquisition.”

“Joining,” Revas murmured, “or conscripted?” He smiled brightly. “I do enjoy how  _ flexibly _ the aristocracy of the world defines free will. But, alas, I was conscripted--Imladris was born barely two years after me, and yes, I did ask my father if we could send her back.”

Imladris sipped her wine: Antivan, but not Josephine’s stock. Mouse must have supplied it. The food, though, was the Inquisition’s. Nice balancing of powers. “Enjoying emerging from my shadow?”

Revas snorted. “I’ve always been glad for how much cover you provide me. Olivine and I met in school--House Cadash and Clan Lavellan educate our children together. We met Mouse before the Blight.”

Varric waved his hand. “How did you get the--blood-writing, right? I thought that was a  _ Dalish _ - _ only _ kind of thing.”

Mouse traced the line of Sylaise’s symmetry down the edge of his nose before answering, a nervous habit. “I may not be an elf, but my son is, and I married into Clan Lavellan. But I earned the vallaslin before Ashara and I had our child.”

“Ashara,” Imladris explained, “is my elder sister. Was. She--was conscripted into the Grey Wardens almost twenty years ago. We haven’t heard from her in recent years.” Samahl, at the end of his table, crossed his arms and looked away.

Solas looked faintly appalled. “So like the Dalish, you worship the elvhen gods? Despite that most of their people would call you shemlem?”

Mouse was amused, and chuckled before he answered. “Keeper Adahlfenor took my family in when we fled slavers in Rivain. I was raised in the Friendly Homes of Wycombe, just as Imladris and Revas were. Just as we raise our children. I am not an elf. I am a Rivaini man, of the Free People of Wycombe. I honor the elvhen Creators as my lethallin do; they make more sense to me than the Maker. And Mythal’s justice...” he trailed off. Imladris had the same vallaslin. Most of their generation did: Mythal, or Elgar'nan, or Andruil. They had been the children who had survived the purges.   
Solas turned to Olivine. “But you are half-elvhen.”

Olivine said mildly, “Boy, you’re an absolutist, aren’t you?” She took a long draught of her ale before responding. Solas continued studying her. “My mother was a craftswoman of Clan Lavellan. My father is a merchant of House Cadash. Luckily, House Cadash and Clan Lavellan have been more or less living together for three generations--just a lake away from the Golden Wood is Durin’s Keep, after all. And House Cadash has been elfblooded since the Fall of Arlathan, honestly. That’s why we were banished in the first place. Not keeping the lines pure.”

Varric laughed. “That’s so much better than the reason why my family was. That was just pure greed. But this is a good story: forbidden love between the Children of Stone and men of the Dales, from the fall of Arlathan--ooh, reincarnated lovers, that’s good.”

Olivine regarded him skeptically. “And really, there’s not much left nowadays. Not after Clan Lavellan was decimated, during the Purge. It’s ridiculous to still be thinking of terms of ‘dwarf’ or ‘elf’ or ‘human,’ when there’s so much more at stake. The hole in the sky threatens us all. Food shortages and encroaching darkspawn in Orzammar threaten us all. The slave trade,” she pointed at Varric, “being the biggest employer of merchants in the Free Marches  _ very much _ threatens us all.”

Josephine cleared her throat. “So, you’re an abolitionist, then. I thought the dwarves stayed out of debates about the slave trade. It is illegal in the Free Marches and Ferelden, no?” She smiled again. “And Orlais, too--”

Manon scoffed. “As if you could call the position of an elf in the city higher than that of a slave. Lady Montilyet,” she leaned forward, “if I may be so bold--I  _ am _ so bold, may I ask--are you aware of the figures of how many elvhen women disappear each year from an Antivan alienage?”

Josephine paused. “Pardon me, I-I was not aware there was a problem with--”

Manon clicked her tongue. “And it’s worse with the Dalish. You’re fair game, if you’re caught wandering from your clan. At least  _ we _ have the Chantry to protest to, in exchange for the loss of our language and tradition. Not that the Chantry listens. How many elvhen children died in Kirkwall, before the Champion put a stop to it?”

Varric darkened. “You’re right, you’re not saying anything I haven’t said before,” he said. “And what happened with the magistrate’s son was fucked up. But the Merchants’ Guild doesn’t work with the elves in Kirkwall. The elves in Kirkwall don’t  _ have _ any sort of organization they can negotiate from, anyway--”

“Not to mention the Grey Wardens are a kind of slavery, too,” Samahl said suddenly. “What with the Rite of Conscription and all. Get the Calling, die horribly and insane and alone in the Deep Roads, being ripped apart by darkspawn and demons. And who ends up getting conscripted, anyway? Criminals. And who commits the crime? The people who have to.” Imladris and Mouse exchanged a glance. He was taking the mention of his mother--and her likely demise--roughly. But was there any other way to feel?

Josephine circled the conversation back. “But Clan Lavellan does?” she said pleasantly. Solas’ prodding was forgotten as Gadden began to brag.

“House Cadash and Clan Lavellan have been working together since the Fourth Blight!” he announced. “Since the evacuation of our city, and Warden Senaste and Warden Belana build the aravels to outrun the darkspawn! Since our thaig fell to an earthquake and House Cadash had to rebuild. It’s not a matter of negotiation at this point, it’s shared history. We’re sovereign peoples of the same nation--Wycombe of the Free Marches. It’s been three centuries since my people left the Stone. The first people to trade us food for silverite was Clan Lavellan. Now, our relationship with other Dalish clans is more complicated, of course. And mostly we trust in our negotiators,” his eyes found Imladris, “to be the appropriate middlemen in our dealings with elves who aren’t part of our People.”

“Your People?” Solas said. He had an odd expression on his face, almost disgust, almost satisfaction. His lips were almost tied into a smile. How old was he, really? She didn’t think he was much older than her, but elves aged slowly and strangely. He could be closer to a hundred than to forty. Gadden’s eyes rested on Samahl and Malika, flicked to hers.

“Yes,” Gadden said firmly, and Imladris remembered him when they were young, when Ashara had brought her hard-eyed to his desk and told him they needed to make twelve hundred sovereigns to buy their brother back, and they were willing to head any expedition to any part of Thedas to make it. He had steepled his head on his fingers and said he’d forward the first eleven hundred himself. “The Free People of Wycombe.”

“You keep saying free,” Solas remarked, “but I have met Dalish elves who live in dire poverty, raiding poor human farmers for their dinner, who call themselves free. I have observed Qunari mages in the Fade, utterly determined that their freedom was underscored by the threads sewing shut their mouths. We are always beholden to some form of slavery, be it the trade, or the aristocracy, or that,” his lips curled, “of the gods. What makes a slave different from a servant?”

Imladris stared at him flatly. “That’s what Manon said. We call ourselves Free in Wycombe, because we live independently from the nobility of Thedas. We’re run by municipal councils. Our mages live equally amongst us. Human, elf, and dwarf have equal vote amongst the Vhenallin. No one goes hungry, not anymore. We don’t allow slavers to prey within our borders.”

Solas leaned back in his chair. “But you still pay taxes to the Duke of Wycombe.”

Imladris frowned. “The Duke of Wycombe takes them out of our flesh.”

“And you let him?”

“Look at my face,” Imladris snapped back. “You think I do?”

Solas closed his eyes. “I--apologize. But where do you think your rebellion will take you? The Chantry was distracted by the mage rebellion and now the Breach, but what do you think a non-human homeland that is  _ explicitly _ apostate will fare when the Chantry refocuses? The Chant is barely less militaristic than the Qun--”

“Is that really how you think of the Chant?” Cassandra asked, suddenly distressed.  
Revas laughed. “Seeker, don’t you know your history of the Exalted March? You called an Inquisition. What do you think we think? After what your people did to us?”  
“So you’re saying it’s better not try at all?” Imladris was staring Solas down. “And you say the _Dalish_ \--”

Solas shook his head. “I am not saying that at all. But--but I have seen many revolutions of our People flounder. I have watched the Dales fall, amidst religious war and political strife. It is not the revolution that is the difficult part. It is  _ sustaining _ a just society afterward, that is the true test of your struggle.”

Imladris was surprised. They looked at each other appraisingly. She noticed a mild dotting of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Felassan was the only other man she had met with eyes like that. She saw him looking at her lips. She closed her eyes and responded, “I know that. We know that. And we’re preparing as much as we can. But here we are.” She spread her arms wide. “On a rooftop in Val Royeaux, a Dalish aravel out of the Free Marches chatting up the Inner Circle of the Inquisition. How could I have ever prepared for this?”

Solas chuckled a bit. “True. The vagaries of fortune leave even the best prepared wrongfooted. I admire the work your people are doing in Wycombe, though I do not believe it will last.”

Revas said easily, “Then we’re happy that we’re proving you wrong.”

Manon added in, “It is not just the people of Free Wycombe who are organizing for justice.” She smiled at Cassandra, who was growing more uncomfortable as the conversation continued. “We in Val Royeaux even work with the Chantry. To the extent that we allow the Chantry in the alienage, any more.”

Cassandra was unhappy. “I had heard rumors of this. That the elves were banning Chantry sisters from their walls.”

Manon quirked an eyebrow. “Does that displease you? We may not be as connected to our past as the Dalish, but we remember our own faith. It wasn’t Andraste who led us out of Tevinter. It was Shartan. And with him, we founded the great city of Halamshiral.”

“I am surrounded by heretics,” Cassandra lamented. “The more time I spend with Lavellan, the more blasphemy I hear.”

“And what do you think of that, Seeker?” Solas asked. “How do you answer these challenges?”

Cassandra gritted her teeth. “I can admit when I am wrong, though some truths are uncomfortable. It is possible to have a different view of the Maker, how He has revealed Himself in different forms.”

Varric put his head in his hands. “Well, we’ve strode through every forbidden topic for a dinner party: Dalish revolution, surface dwarves and the Orzammar problem, the Canticle of Shartan...I guess we can’t gossip about your sex life in front of your family, Herald. Would rather we not talk about Dalish courting customs, I could never tell if Merrill was bullshitting me when I asked....”

Josephine laughed. “I had heard the Dalish like arguing. This has certainly been invigorating. Better than Brother Genitivi.”

“Never trust an elf to recount their people’s history,” Olivine said. “We always come up with something different. And in Clan Lavellan, we’re a bit different than most.”

They started talking about workers: Josephine had read a scholar from Hossberg who had declared the worker the nexus of economy and it had totally changed her understanding of power. She asked about the dockworkers’ strike in Wycombe, which Mahanon and Mouse had helped organize, and Imladris was happy to tell the story.

“My bondsman was never a fighter,” she sighed. “Very much the consummate artist. He’d heard someone down the street whistling a song and could write it up as a score and play it back within a minute. We left Val Royeaux when...when it became obvious neither of us could survive living here much longer. I had lost my place in the University, and with that the permission to live outside the Circle, and Mahanon--a composer in Halamshiral had taken him on as an amanuensis, but kept passing my man’s work off as his. I could work for House Cadash, of course, organizing aravels and patrols within the Free Marches, but he found it hard to find work. Eventually he ended up in the docks.” She remembered him coming home exhausted, too tired to sing Mathalin to sleep. They’d been glad she was a mage, it made it so easy for them to run a bath, nap in the hot water, rub those sore muscles away. “And the shem workers were mostly refugees from the Blight. Many of them had turned to us to fight the Blind Men off. So few knew how to hunt...Mahanon, of course, was best at building connections. No one could ever quite forget him.”

“Man knew how to make an entrance,” Mouse said fondly. “Best-dressed elf I ever met. Wonderful thief, too.”

Imladris glared at him. The Inquisition already knew she had worked for the Carta. They didn’t need to know the specifics. “When we returned to Wycombe, I thought he’d find work as a tailor while he started his reputation as a musician. Instead, he went straight to the docks. And being Mahanon, he made friends. And brought them home--bachelor shemlen, with little to no education, who’d only seen an elf woman in the brothels, not at the head of a table. But somehow that first dinner  _ wasn’t _ a disaster. I can’t pretend any of it was easy. It took years of learning to know each other.”

“And to convince a nation of usurpers of your intrinsic worth,” Solas remarked. “Which seems easier to say than to believe.”

“I’m not pretending we don’t have problems,” Imladris said. “Things are inevitably awkward. But when you fight with someone for the same basic freedom, it makes you more likely to fight for their individual needs too. When you have what they lack. I don’t believe in divine intervention--the Creators were locked away from us long ago. But people? All the surprises and glories of everyday people?  _ That _ gives me faith. That’ll we close this Breach. That magic will survive. That when the dust clears after the wars tearing this continent apart, elves and poor men will be more likely to work together. An Exalted March will not happen again.”

Josephine interjected, “So what do you think of Ambassador Briala’s sabotage of the current Orlesian Civil War? And her refusal to take a side? When you’re talking about elves cooperating with humans, it doesn’t seem consistent with what elves are actually doing--the Val Royeaux alienage has become even more separate from the rest of the city. In Edgehall, the elves live completely apart from the city, in a walled fort of their own. In Antiva and Rivain, of course, it is different--”

Manon leaned forward. “Not so different, da’len. And it is not a matter of ‘ _ cooperation _ ,’ Lady Montilyet.” Imladris had always admired the sardonic edge to Manon’s voice. She was as arch as an human player of the Great Game. “I worked as an attendant to Lady Chastillon during the Border Skirmish against Tevinter before the Blight. I watched her order the elvhen slaves dig a ditch, big enough to fit twenty people. We all knew they were digging their own graves. But they were so eager to  _ cooperate _ ,” her voice became hard, “that they may as well pressed the knife to their own throat. The war in the Dales isn’t fought for the elvhen People. Empress Celene burnt Halamsiral to the ground.  _ One thousand six hundred and forty seven _ Orlesian elves lost their lives in the conflagration. If she truly thought of us as equal citizens of the Orlesian Empire, she would never have done that. Can you imagine the outcry if she had directed her troops to Hightown, instead of Dirthavaren? The Chantry would have declared an Exalted March! So, no--the elves will not cooperate. We would rather live our lives.” She leaned back in our chair, and sniffed: a supremely Orlesian gesture. “Whatever is left for us to live.”

Josephine apologized, “I-I am sorry, I did not think about it, one forgets how large Halamshiral truly is--”

Manon sighed. “No matter. Your people never do. I did not come here to talk politics, but politics follows us. When your daughter-in-law is declared Herald of Andraste by the same religion--”

Cassandra was intrigued. “So you are not Andrastian? Despite living in Val Royeaux. You are not Dalish?”

Manon shook her head. “So absolutist! I don’t like Andrastianism, or the Creators either. I find it personally offensive, the idea that the Divine would turn away and curse its creation because of the imperfection it designed. Perhaps Andraste was a real person. It was nice that she gave us the Dales. A shame her successors ripped our people apart to get them back, but from what I’ve studied of the Chant, Andraste was never good at follow-through. Perhaps the Creators were real, too, and there is some mad mage walking the Fade like a wolf, so they can never return. What has that to do with me? The Maker has nothing to do with the price of bread.”

The table was utterly silent. Cullen hadn’t said a word throughout the entire meal, likely afraid he would say something offensive. Despite the ringer it was putting her Andrastian comrades through, Imladris found that she was enjoying herself. It was wonderful, having a real conversation. It was wonderful being around people who agreed with her, and by every god that could still hear her, it was wonderful not to have to make the argument herself. Her family would be there, if she needed to step back.

“Well,” Josephine said finally, “I see why you were charged with apostasy, Herald.”

Malika’s snicker was audible, even from the end of the table. The adults stared her down, but she just puffed out her chest. “What?” she double-downed. “It’s silly. The idea of Auntie Imladris being the Herald of  _ Andraste _ . Like, look at her face.” She waved a hand in front of her own, which had Sylaise’s vallaslin etched on it. “The vallaslin? You can’t really get more Dalish than the First. Herald of Mythal, that’s at least...as plausible as it gets.”

Samahl piped up, “Andraste’s also...nice, isn’t she? That’s what Sister Therese told me. That doesn’t sound like our aunt, no offense. ”

“Absolutely none taken, da’vhenan,” Imladris laughed. “I’ve never pretended to be a nice person. Rumors of my divinity have been greatly exaggerated.”

“Yes, but Mythal’s an asshole, so maybe you are her Herald. The entire vengeance thing and all,” Revas said. Solas choked on his wine, and grinning, put his glass down. “What, not used to that level of flippancy?” He shot him a suspicious look.

“No,” Solas said, still grinning, “but I expected more reverence from the brother of a Dalish First.”

Revas rolled his eyes. “Oh yes, plenty of elders told me that I had a wicked heart, and Fen’Harel would take me himself for my blasphemy. Except real-life intervened and it was Tevinter slavers, not some wolf god. Would’ve preferred some divine intervention there.” Solas looked abashed. Revas continued, “But we have to consider that there are elves across Thedas discussing the Inquisition and its Herald, and all of them are going, hmm, she’s got Mythal’s vallaslin, the gods are reportedly locked away in the Fade, Imladris tripped through the Fade,” Imladris rolled her eyes, but his description wasn’t inaccurate, “maybe she got sent by them to restore the elvhen people--”

“That’s utterly absurd,” Imladris told him.

“Less absurd than you being sent by Andraste.”

Imladris paused. “Fair.”

Josephine was staring at her plate. “We’ve been playing it to the best of our advantage, of course, saying Andraste sent her to remind humans of the place of Shartan at her side. It helps, of course, that the Hero of Ferelden is an elf as well. Fascinating. I did not think about the opportunities liaising with elven communities would bring. Or the consequences of the Inquisition on games besides that of the Great Game. We will have to discuss this,” she eyed Imladris. “When we return to Haven, perhaps. But now--you know, Imladris told me that you were a merchant band, amongst other things.” Rope smirked at that, fingering her knife. “How did you all come together?”

The mood grew more lighthearted after that. Olivine told them the story of how Gadden had helped them track Revas down, the shady deals they had to pull in Orzammar. Malika complained half-heartedly about her parents being the subject of ballads: Olivine had won a game with loaded dice, to get her bondsman back. Rope had been tracking slavers with the Red Jennies during the Blight, but joined them because of their focus on the alienages. Eventually, Solas excused himself, pleading history and the Fade, and Cassandra and Cullen left soon afterward. Only Josephine and Varric seemed totally at ease, and Imladris could see Revas getting restless. She winced when he pricked his thumb, delicately, with his knife, and flicked a drop of blood into his wine glass. It reverberated gently: a sleep spell. Josephine and Varric, the vibrations coursing through their body, yawned in unison.

“Why don’t you go to bed?” Revas suggested gently.

Varric yawned hugely and stretched, almost hitting Mouse, who lightly moved out of his way. “You know, I’m getting tired.” He blinked slowly, limbs growing heavy. “I’m normally the last to go to bed...I’ll see you guys in the morning? You’re an interesting crowd ....” Varric sloped off, down the roof, and to his room. Josephine, befuddled, looked after him, then at Revas. She yawned again.

“Oh! I do apologize, it has been such a long day...perhaps it will be best if we continue this conversation in the morning?” Josephine struggled to keep her face clear. Imladris touched her arm.

“I would like that,” Imladris said. “You’ve been kind to us.” Josephine blinked slowly, sleepily, as the charm took hold.

“Herald,” she drawled, exhaustion battling with her Antivan accent.

Revas said, “Why don’t you go to bed.” An order, not an suggestion. Josephine went. They waited until they heard the doors downstairs click shut.

Imladris turned to Revas and whispered, “Blood magic in a house with both a templar and a Seeker? I never thought you’d be this reckless.”

“I never thought they’d leave,” he said unrepentantly. “And it’s a minor compulsion. Nothing lasting. And they need the sleep.”

So many of their people came back from Tevinter with just enough blood magic to survive, and it seemed cruel to punish them for what taught them to survive. Imladris did not like blood magic, not particularly, but Revas stayed away from demons and put up wards before he fell asleep. His connection to the Fade in general was weakening--blood magic was a path that allowed no tangents. She was worried, but it was out of her concern. He scowled slightly at the expression on her face, and she sighed.

“It’s good to be alone with you all,” she spoke to the table. Her family’s faces shone in the candlelight. She only wished her daughters were there, and Revas’ son, and Deshanna, and since she was wishing, she wished Mahanon was there, glittering in stolen black velvet and silver. “Tell me, how is everything? How are all of you? Why didn’t you bring my girls? Where’s Azadi?”

Malika looked at Olivine and snorted again. Olivine stared her down. Malika whilted, and Olivine said, “Azadi is spending some time in Orzammar with our cousins. He...ran into some trouble while in Wycombe, a few months ago. It seemed best to leave for a bit, while things calm down.”

Imladris closed her eyes. “Who did he kill?”

“Duke Antoine’s third son,” Malika said proudly. “The one he had with his Free Marcher wife. The one with the stupid moustache.” Imladris exhaled slowly. Before she had left, they had agreed to leave the Free Marcher nobility unmolested. If they could not oust the entirety of the aristocracy, it was better to keep a noble who was beholden to the customs of the Free Marches, than an Orlesian imperialist. “He deserved it,” Malika said defensively. “He tried to institute the graduation ritual here.” Imladris went quiet. Every four years, the graduation class of the Institut des Chevaliers practiced urban warfare in the alienages of the Orlesian Empire, running down any elf they saw still out after curfew. That was why the only large thoroughfare in Val Royeaux was the Walk of the Chevalier, and why all the other streets were too narrow to pull a horse through--though halla could delicately pick their way, if the halla liked cobblestone. The elves of Free Wycombe, though, had seen enough violence. Everyone knew they would fight back. She had personally burnt the country villas of nobles who wanted to gamble with that.

“Then he did well,” Imladris said. “Regardless of what the other Free Marcher states think. We were never going to get them on our side, anyway. But my daughters?”

“Safe,” said Mouse reassuringly. “With Deshanna. Mathalin is trying to get used to being the daughter of the Herald of Mythal. You can probably guess she doesn’t like it.” Imladris grimaced. Manon took her hand and held it tightly. “Olivine took some photos, if you want them--I know you’ve been worried about us getting tangled up in this mess, but it’s inevitable, lethallin.”

“If she won’t take them, I’ll have them,” Manon said stiffly. Mouse glanced at Imladris. She nodded, and he went to their camp and dragged out a box.

“We brought you a few things,” Gadden said smugly. “Well worth the investment.” He and Olivine cleared off the table, piling plates towards the edge of the table. They would have to clean it before morning. Gadden slowly unloaded the box: some well-worth books, from her own shelves, and a pile of letters. A photo album, two large portraits of Mahanon smirking at the camera, violin over his shoulder, so sure of his own beauty. His hair was mussed. She grabbed the portrait and studied the background. It was the docks of Wycombe, a mabari staring in the background. Olivine must have taken it a few years before Mathalin was born. He had been so beautiful, so vibrant. At least Mathalin was so much like him. Gadden handed her a few more photos: Mirwen in the Golden Wood, curled up in the roots of a tree, watching something Olivine hadn’t seen fit to capture. Her Mathalin, grinning, levitating a perfectly smooth stone between her hands--a Dalish patience exercise, forcing a young mage to smooth over a stone. Imladris swallowed, hard. Mathalin hadn’t been able to levitate even a feather when she left. Her girls were growing without her, but they never needed her, not really. They had the entirety of the Free People of Wycombe. It hurt to look at them.

“I’m not sure it’s safe for me to keep these,” Imladris said. “I don’t think the Inquisition knows what they look like. If they’re taken capture, if they’re hurt because of me--”

“I want those photos,” Manon said. She had no such compunctions. “And I think you should take a copy, too, because you don’t know when you’ll see them again. If you will. Banal’nadas.” Nothing is inevitable, the Blight is inevitable, death is inevitable. Mahanon would chirp that at her, cheerily, when she would get frustrated over some little thing, over a late submission or a broken printer’s block. He would whisper it, solemnly, when they were in bed after a funeral, where yet another friend had been killed. He told it to Mathalin, angry because she couldn’t walk around Free Wycombe alone, because nothing was inevitable, her fate was not certain, anything could happen.

Olivine said, “I made sure to make copies for both of you.” She was perfect, Imladris thought.

“You know I can’t bring them to Haven. As much as I want them with me. It’s not safe.”

Samahl scowled. “Nowhere’s safe. If it’s not the Chantry, it’s the slavers. It’s not the slavers, it’s the Blight. If it’s not the Blight, it’s just starvation.”

“One last thing!” Gadden pulled out a bundle wrapped in brown paper and twine, large and heavy. “Don’t open this until that ambassador of yours tells you you need to dress for a party. We took care of it.”

Imladris was relieved. Josephine was lovely, but that dress of hers was hideous, and Orlesian fashion was barely better. But a lovely tunic made out of fade-touched plush fustian velvet, with leather leggings, some light enchanted jewelry--the Free People of Wycombe knew how to outfit their champions. She trusted Gadden’s taste.

“They think we’re just scrabbling at the earth,” Imladris said. “As if our craftsmanship doesn’t date all the way back to Arlathan. Even that apostate, Solas. But I think he’s from Tevinter. Revas? What do you think?”

Revas shrugged. “He’s certainly got a northern accent. Reminds me of your friend Felassan. And, well, he’s certainly seen a failed uprising or two. Maybe in the Fade, maybe not. There’s something a little off about him.”

“Felassan told me I could trust him. And I trust Felassan.”

Rope touched her shoulder. “Speaking of--we should go meet him. He’s the one who made contact with the agent.”

They changed quickly into light leather armor. Imladris traded her staff for a pair of enchanted Dalish slashers. She had heard that Warden Mahariel had learned how to manipulate spirit energy into a blade from a spirit, that the elves of Arlathan had an entire guild called the Arcane Warriors. She wished she could learn the trick, it was safer walking Thedas with a hilt than a staff. Gadden had brought the masks--the special helmets Briala had commissioned for her bards, shaped like Dalish heraldry.

“Be quick about it,” Olivine said. “We’ll clean up, and cover for you if any of them wake up.”

“We’ll be back before dawn,” Imladris reassured her.

“Really?” Olivine teased. “Even with Felassan?” Imladris rolled her eyes at her, and Rope tapped her arm impatiently. They headed off, climbing the roofs, sticking to the shadows. She had missed this, being the slow arrow loosed in the dark, roving through city streets. She owed Briala her life, the time she had with Mahanon, her daughters. Killing a couple shem was the least she could do. The city stretched seething below their feet. Finally, they reached the red lantern district; Imladris had rarely visited, it hadn’t been safe. Mahanon had run messages, though, in the early days, when Briala was first figuring out their network. He had said he hadn’t slept around, that fucking shem for Briala was not a boundary he could afford to cross, no matter all she had done for them. He had been such a beautiful man.

Rope signed at her: the wolf, pointed to her eye, held up four fingers of her right hand, and then gave the sign for the sun. Imladris mentally translated: you’re distracted, look out, we’re going for the room on the upper floor with the four-pronged candelabra in the window. Twenty years of working together made sign language almost seamless. Imladris signed back: I see, I follow. Rope touched her arm, and then leapt across the street onto the roof of the brothel, disappearing into the shadow. Imladris counted four beats before following. Then they waited. Rope tapped her hand with two fingers: the window would open when the Chantry bell rang twice. The thrill of the hunt built up like feathers tickling her skin. She was sweating despite the sea air.

The bell toned deep and long over the city of Val Royeaux, and the Lavellan women tensed in unison as the window creaked open. They squeezed each other’s hand, quick and loving, and then Rope swung herself over the ledge and right into the window. Imladris waited one heartbeat and followed, less graceful but still quick. She rolled in and pulled out her daggers, just in case, summoning heat into the room. She couldn’t write a glyph but she could pull whatever fire was already in the room. But Felassan was there, and he would not betray her, and he was already striding over to pull the window close and place the candelabra back on the sill. Rope was staring at an elf in light plate armor, who was sitting on an unmade bed with his head in his hands. Imladris looked at Felassan questioningly, who smiled thinly at her.

“This is Ilen,” he said. “Squire to the chevalier Blaen. A lyrium smuggler, with the Carta, and the main supplier to the aristocracy of Halamshiral. He’s in Val Royeaux tonight, for business. The Empress wants the elves quieted; Blaen thinks he can do that by selling them corrupted lyrium.” He passed her a vial. “Red.”

Imladris could hear it hissing. She put it down on the table. She did not want it near her.

“He is playing with something far more deadly than he will ever know.” Felassan’s face was sharp and cold. “He must be dealt with. I’ll leave it to you to be creative. I would not have wished this on my worst enemy. This cannot be allowed.”

Ilen said roughly, “He’s in the next room. The boy’s been paid off, he’s a friend of mine. He won’t talk.” Imladris studied his face: he had been weeping.

“In love with your master?” she asked sardonically. She couldn’t stand servants like that.

Ilen flinched. “He can’t be allowed to do this. It doesn’t--whatever he promised me, I can’t let him do this to people. It’s not right.”

“Ma serannas, da’len,” she said. “For that, I promise you it will be quick.”

The hallway was deserted, soundproofed with magic. The door had been left unlocked, and they slipped inside. The boy, who was half-Qunari by the size of him, was definitely keeping Blaen distracted. He grinned at them lazily, and fixed a hand at the back of Blaen’s neck.

“We’re going to try something new,” he rumbled. “A little bit of breath-play.” Imladris stopped dead in her tracks and exchanged a glance with Rope. They had performed some surreal assassinations before, but this was just ridiculous.  _ Orlesians _ , she thought disgustedly. Rope silently handed him a garotte. They watched him speed up his thrusts with disinterest. Just before Blaen came, the boy slipped the cord around his throat and pulled. “Wa-ho there!” he laughed, as if he were riding a skittish horse. He pulled out and jumped away. Imladris stamped a foot into the chevalier’s back to keep him from rising as Rope grabbed the cord again and tightened, pressing the man’s head into the pillow to muffle his screams. When the twitching subsided, Rope dropped the garotte and pulled out a bottle. She mimed drinking and handed it to the boy. He sighed. “To make sure they know I’m innocent? I’m too valuable to them, they won’t let me go to prison.” But he drank the bottle anyway, and Rope and Imladris caught him as the sleep potion took hold and gently lowered him to the foot of the bed. She was shaking, not from fear, but from the pure adrenaline of a well-planned kill. They slipped out of the room and back to where the squire and Felassan were waiting.

“Is it done?” Ilen asked.

Rope said, “It was quick.”

He wrapped back into himself. Felassan looked at him impassively. “You need to grow out of loving bad men,” he said. “Trust me. Try someone who won’t make you choose between them and your people. He will never be worth throwing your world away.” Imladris touched his arm: was that really necessary? Felassan leaned into her touch, just a little. He whispered into her ear, “Why don’t you meet me in half an hour? Something came up. I have to leave tomorrow.” She caressed his hand with her thumb: yes. She could feel Rope staring at her behind her mask. Doubtless she’d give her shit about it tomorrow. Felassan opened the window again, and they absconded, roof-hopping a little giddily back towards the inn. They stopped at the roof across the street. Rope pulled off her mask, and Imladris followed, handing it to her.

Stuffing the masks into her bag, Rope complained, “I knew it. I knew you’d go off with him.”

“You don’t approve?”

“No, I don’t care, but Olivine said you’d start back up with him and I live to prove her wrong. But she’s right, again, and I’m going to have to tell her she was right, yet again. And then she’ll be smug and Revas will ask why and Gadden will guffaw and make a joke about how Deshanna will never manage to marry you off to Briala--”

Imladris rubbed her eyes. Her mood soured as she realized she still hadn’t washed off her green eyepaint. “She still thinks that can happen? What does Briala say about that?”

Rope guffawed. “I don’t know. Ask Felassan!”

“Shut up,” Imladris said affectionately. “I’ve missed you.” They held each other for a second. Rope had been the first friend she made in the Wycombe alienage--Gadden had introduced them.

Rope pulled away. “Come back before dawn, yeah? No need to let the Inquisition know you’ve got a lover.”  
Imladris had a brief image of trying to explain her relationship with Felassan, and how he used to fuck her and her bondsman, occasionally at the same time, but how it was strictly a deep, sexual friendship, based on a shared dream of liberation, to Cassandra. “Mythal’s mercy, no. You know how the shem are.”

* * *

The narrow cobble streets of the alienage were lit by enchanted lamps, about every twenty year, at every bend. Prosperity brought comfort. Briala was doing a lot of good, Imladris remembered when there were lyrium addicts strung out in the doorways--but some of the healers had started up a clinic, Olivine had done a story about it, the pictures had been stark. People were still up, no one ever went to bed at a reasonable hour, she could hear the carousing around the Vhenadahl. The music was familiar, it sounded Dalish, a reel from Clan Ghilain. A young couple, two boys, first love from the intensity of the embrace, were embracing under the eaves of the house Felassan told her about, between the statues of Fen’Harel. She waited a bit, but the groping was getting a bit much, and finally cleared her throat.

“Excuse me,” she said, amused, and the boys sprung apart. One of them shot her a smug grin, the other looked more sheepish. “Enjoy your night.” They moved to let her through the door, still holding hands.

“You too, hahren,” the sheepish one called, and she heard the other one laugh. As she padded up the stairs, she shook her head. Did she really count as an elder now? Her hair wasn’t gray yet. Finally, she entered Felassan’s room. His staff leaned in the corner, an eluvian opposite it. There was a bottle of wine and a glass left on the windowsill. She took it, checked its contents, and poured herself a glass. Sitting on the window, she watched the city sing. Twenty years ago, she would have been out there, Mahanon pulling her into a dance as the players sped up the beat to match the racing night. She would have been out there in the cafes, arguing with Briala and their friends about Orlais and the Dalish and the alienages, and perhaps Maurice or Remedios would have gotten up to declare a poem, maybe they would have picked a fight with the waiter and been thrown out, again, left to climb up to a roof and stare at the sea, barely visible from beyond the alienage walls, and dream, tell stories of what had been.

She felt the surge of familiar magic as the eluvian activated. Felassan stepped through, but she continued to watch the night. He said, “You’re a lovely sight, after a night like this.” He stepped over to her and Imladris turned around and leaned into his embrace as he wrapped his arms around her. He kissed the top of her head, gently. “Melancholic?”

“Old memories, old friends,” she murmured. She could hear his heart beating, a frail intimate thing.

Felassan laughed shortly. “Tell me about it.” She made room for him on the windowsill, he slipped next to her, keeping his arm around her waist. They faced the bed, and Imladris almost laughed at the anticipation rising in her.

“Why don’t we move somewhere more comfortable?” she suggested. She was getting too old for these games.

“Mmm.” He got up and stretched, began slipping his robes off, throwing them carelessly onto his chair. Imladris rose and met him when he was standing in nothing but a light tunic and his leggings, slipped her hands under the thin cloth, and kissed him firmly. They were slow, and gentle with each other, quite unlike how they were when they were young. It wasn’t playful anymore. She kept testing the limits of what she could do. Many times she had to stop, she would breathe, and Felassan carefully would move away and to the side as she recollected herself. But it felt like that, that she was picking the pieces of herself back, and it felt good, and it felt good to do something that unabashedly felt good, was good, was for her and him only, as cautious as they were, a gift shared amongst old friends. It didn’t hurt.

They were quiet in the end. Felassan spooned her, leg still thrown over her, a hand on the curve of her hip. They watched the night. Imladris wondered briefly if anyone watched--voyeurism was a Val Royeaux pastime--and, discomfited, banished the thought. They should have closed the window, but the air was fresh, and she could still hear music played on some distant roof-top.

“Are you alright?” Felassan said. “You seem--away from yourself.” She turned, laid on her back lazily, touched his face.

“No more than usual,” she responded, and at the flash of worry that crossed his face, she hastily amended, “I feel good, ma falon. More serene. It’s been a hell of a day.” He leaned down to kiss her again. She could still taste herself on him, and smiled against his lips. “You’re quiet, too.”

Felassan placed his face squarely on her chest. Men, she thought, amused, and stroked his hair. “Mm.” She waited. “You would think more things would change,” he said finally. He drew back, but pulled her into his arms again. “I’m getting too old to arrange clandestine assassinations in brothels.”

“Aren’t all assassinations clandestine?” Imladris asked, and Felassan laughed.

“Yes. Although, once…” he smirked to himself, then sighed. “I’m sorry. The past is catching up with me.”

“What, Solas?” Imladris propped herself up on one arm. “Don’t tell me you’ve been thinking about _him_ this entire time.”  
“Absolutely not,” Felassan stated, “absolutely never. He is the absolute last person I want to be thinking about right now. Not when I have you in front of me.” She raked her nails along his side, and he shivered.

“What’s bothering you?”

Felassan threw himself back on the bed and laughed, and he pulled Imladris on top of him again and bit her neck, tugged at her hair, kissed her again, caressed her breath. “My incipient mortality,” he joked, “questions of whether I am truly living or just rotting towards the grave, this entire time. If you’re just fucking a corpse-to-be. If it’s fair to enjoy the living when we’re condemned to die. The sense that I’ve outlived my time. The certainty of it, actually.”

Imladris was literally thrown off-balance, and ended up with her legs bent awkwardly. Muscles twinged, not particularly pleasantly. “You cannot have seriously been thinking about all that during sex,” she said. “Clearly I was doing something wrong, if all I did was bring you to an existential climax.”

Felassan’s laugh wracked his whole frame. “No, you’re wonderful.” He ran the edge of his teeth across her breast.

Imladris pushed him. “Don’t do that.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

She moved off of him. “No, it’s fine.”

Felassan took her in, and she felt him eying the old scars he had seen before, the new ones she was still trying to adjust herself to, the ways her body had changed. They hadn’t slept together since before Mirwen was born, and that had been with Mahanon. He seemed sad. Imladris felt a sudden sick, visceral shock of hatred, and breathed. “Sorry,” she said. “Sorry.”

Felassan asked slowly, “Can I touch you?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s a ‘no,’ then,” he said. He found a blanket, offered it to her, and she turned away and curled in on herself. She was not thinking. She was resolutely not thinking. Eventually the fear passed. Felassan asked, “Can I touch your shoulder?”

“Not my neck.”

“No,” he agreed, and he touched her shoulder gently. “I can leave the room, if you like. Or stay. Whatever you like.”

Imladris breathed. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing, truly. Nothing.” He looked at her intently. “You are...a marvel, my friend. I tell you, in the days of Arlathan, you’d have god-kings warring over you. I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”

Imladris barked a laugh. “Flatterer. Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I’m afraid I’ll never get to,” he said simply. “Because I think I know what this Breach will bring. It’s going to get much, much worse before it gets better. And it’s unfair that you, of all people, get saddled with the responsibility to deal with it. With that mark.” He took her hand. “It wasn’t bothering you tonight?”

Imladris shrugged. She had too much on her mind, to think about the tightness in her left hand.

“Promise me you’ll send word if it starts bothering you,” Felassan said. He sighed, tired, and she wrapped her arms around him and drew him in, enjoyed the heat of him, the trust they shared. “I wish we’d been able to build a better world. Not rip open the sky. Not like this. Not like any of this.”

Imladris was annoyed. “What are you talking about?” She pulled away and sat on her haunches. “A better world? Things are better than they were a century ago, Felassan. Things are definitely better than they were under the Tevinter Imperium. And if Briala has her way, we’ll have the Dales back before the age ends. Whatever that will mean.” She was apprehensive about the idea of an Elvhen homeland. She was a Free Marcher, from the wilds and rivers of Wycombe, Lavellan of the Dalish. If Briala called for a march to the Dales, she did not think she would join. She did not think many in Clan Lavellan would heed the call, and besides, Briala was a monarchist, and wanted to re-establish the kingdom of the Dales. “Or maybe in Wycombe, we’ll have our people’s state. Maybe we’ll win it.”

Felassan reached for her face but stopped as she flinched instinctively. New scars ran deep. She took his hand. He said, “I know. But I can’t help but wish the past were different. It is what it is, and I love this world.” He smiled at her. “Our people. That ridiculous half-Qunari prostitute. Ilen, poor kid. I made my choice and I don’t regret it. But sometimes, I get maudlin.” He laughed. “We’ll never get Arlathan back. But our people are our people. And I have my people, now.” He was speaking to comfort himself, not her. She watched him, wondering. He had always had a melancholy streak.

“You’ve got me,” she said hesitantly. “I hope you won’t discount almost twenty years of friendship and the occasional lay.”

Felassan grinned at her. “Oh Imladris, I do like you.” She pulled him to her, and this time, they joked around, not as much as they used to, but still enough.

She woke before dawn, in the blue pre-sunlight. Felassan was planted face-first into his pillow. She looked at him fondly, how could he breathe like that? She smoothed the hair out of his face. He grunted at her.

“I have to go, Felassan,” she said. “Before the Inquisition notices I left.”

Felassan rolled onto his back. “Ugh.” He stroked her clumsily, still half-asleep. “Fuck me first?” She laughed at that and pushed herself on the bed. She felt good. Imladris washed herself quickly, enjoying Felassan’s gaze, and he got up to help dress her. Skin on skin, he was trying to draw her back to bed, but they both knew she needed to go back, and he doubtless had yet another errand of Briala’s to do. 

“Try not to die,” she told him. 

Felassan took his staff and stepped towards the eluvian. Before he stepped through, though, he turned back around and smiled mischievously. “May the Dread Wolf never hear your steps, Herald of Mythal!” he declared, and laughing to himself, stepped through the eluvian before she could ask him what the hell he meant. Rolling her eyes at his irreverence, Imladris headed out, the alienage waking up around her. She tied her hair out of her face as she went, and made it back to the inn just as dawn was breaking. Mouse and Revas were in the kitchen, preparing breakfast, singing in Orlesian Dalish, “A' Chlach a bha mo sheanmhair, 'S mo sheanair oirre seanchas, air tilleadh mar a dh'fhalbh i mo ghalghad a' Chlach!” They stopped to consider her, and she couldn’t help but grin at them. She felt good, loose-limbed, liquid.

“Had a good night?” Mouse asked casually.

“So good, Felassan didn’t even remember to send his regards.” 

“You should probably change, sister,” Revas said, flipping a hot cake. “Into something that doesn’t smell like blood and sex.” Mouse laughed.

“Fair point.” She headed back upstairs and changed into her Inquisition battle mage armor, washed her face again, and put her makeup back on. She could hear them downstairs, and sang along quietly to herself. She liked that song. It was written about her and Mahanon stealing the coronation stone of Dirthaveren, not that the writer had known they had done it, of course. Briala had to smuggle them out of Val Royeaux, but she had seen the opportunity and taken it, and did not regret it. The People had one more piece of themselves returned to them, and she had gotten to return home. When she got downstairs, Gadden had joined them, leading them in a chorus of “When The Hammer Falls” as they heroically made breakfast. Malika was setting the table, banging the plates to the beat of the song. Samahl came from the stables with a bucket of halla milk. Rope came stumbling down the stairs.

“Too early,” she complained, and she collided into Imladris and rested her head on her shoulder. “Ow. Java? Anyone? We’re not out yet, are we?”

“I made some,” Gadden said, and grabbed the coffee pot. He poured Rope a cup.  
“Fuck yeah,” Rope enthused, and collapsed in her chair. Imladris settled next to her. Olivine came down, hair elaborately and impeccably braided, and her aravel joked and ate as the dawn settled firmly into morning. The Inquisition had not risen yet. Imladris watched Revas for signs of mana exhaustion, sleep spells weren’t easy, but he was fine, and gentle as always with Olivine, an arm thrown around her chair. They had plans for the day: Gadden was meeting with the Val Royeaux Alienage Merchants’ Guild, ostensibly to discuss textiles but really to arrange the shipment of ironbark armor through the eluvians. Mouse, Samahl, and Malika were going to set up a stall by the Vhendahl again. Olivine had portraits to take, and Rope was standing guard. The Merchants’ Guild had their eye on House Cadash’s luminography machines. Revas, though, had a mural to paint, in honor of the elves of the mage rebellion, and he had sketches, and he wanted to know what Imladris thought. He was flipping through his sketchbook, looking for the drafts, when Solas ambled down. He sat next to her.

“Slept well?” Imladris asked. “Enjoyed your journeys in the Fade?”

Solas snorted, rubbed a careless hand over his eyes. He looked at the breakfast spread and wrinkled his nose at the heavy savory bent of the dishes in front of him. Varric had teased him relentlessly about that, their first days camping in the Hinterlands, on how he would only break his fast on preserved fruits--only thing sweet in his mouth, for all his bitterness. Imladris, still glowing from the night and early morning, glanced at his lips, took him in quickly, and laughed at herself. Solas was not a pretty man, not beautifully made like her Mahanon, or feline like Felassan, but there was still something compelling in his lips, the sharpness of his cheekbones, his nose, and those shoulders--one good night and she was ready to jump anything that moved, Mythal save her. It had been such a long time.

Solas looked at her sardonically. “And First Lavellan has me pinioned by her infamous hawk gaze, so early in the morning. Do we have any peaches? Ah. A few apples, too. La pomme vie et morte.”

Imladris smirked. “Infamous?” she repeated.

“I only repeat the sentiments of your kinsmen, and those we--because of  _ you _ \--have aided in the Hinterlands.” He slid next to her. She passed him a bowl of fruit, from the innkeeper. He took his time going over them, picking out the best pieces. “To your credit. You do have a steady gaze, and I have seen the way that you cast. In battle, it is clear that you have an indomitable focus.”

Imladris smiled slowly, and took one of the peaches off his plate. “Indomitable focus?” He must have noticed the way she looked at him.

Solas said blandly, “Oh, presumably. I have yet to see it dominated. One must assume the sight would be...fascinating.” He was peeling an apple rather than looking at her directly, but he glanced at her under his lashes and she saw his lips twitch almost into a smirk when he noticed her watching him. Then, abruptly, a bundle of papers were thrust under her nose.

“I found them!” Revas said cheerily. “My drafts for the mural. Tell me which ones you like, we’re going to print it as the cover of this quarter’s issue.”

Torn between irritation and relief, Imladris said, “I will show no mercy. But let me have my java first.” Solas reached for the papers instead.

“So you’re an artist,” he said. “A muralist?”

Revas nodded. “When I can. Scenes for the alienages, mostly, when we travel. Copies of what we find in the temples. I suppose you haven’t seen much of the Kirkwall style--you’ve been mostly wandering the Kocari Wilds, haven’t you? I’ve been experimenting in the blockiness of it, for more narrative immediacy. It’s a more direct way of drawing a scene, and I can be cheaper with my colors than when I’m painting in more classically Elvhen styles. I like the line art of the Dales--have you seen the garish neorealism the Orlesians call portraiture?--and I’ve been hoping to combine some elements of Dwarven Free Marches illustration with a traditionalist didactic approach. Do you paint yourself?”  
Solas shrugged. “Not in years. I suppose you would say I am trained in a classical style. I draw most of my technique from memories of Arlathan--I was lucky that in my home village, as I dreamed, there were more spirits more interested in teaching me how to hold a paintbrush than possessing me.” He smiled ruefully, shook his head, and peered over Imladris’ shoulder. “These...these are quite good. Like woodblock prints--I suppose you compose for the printing press, for your magazine.”

Revas said, “No, it’s just the Kirkwall School. Free Marches in general, but we started in Kirkwall. A mixture of surrealism and simplicity: break an image down into its root form, what strikes the eye immediately, but in a way that carries the emotionality before the shape. Because instinct is faster than an image.”

Imladris laughed. “I’ve missed you talking about art, brother.” She pulled out her favorite, a bold propaganda piece about the mage rebellion: an owl, the emblem of the mages of Thedas, stylized as Elvhen, ripping the Circle apart with its claws in the upper center. On either side, an elf flanking, staff raised: Orsino and Fiona. And below the broken Circle, Anders, both hands upraised and empty, eyes chalked over white: Justice was present. “I like this one. It’d be a good cover, and Orsino deserves his due.” She scowled slightly. “Better than what Varric wrote.”

Solas smiled slightly. “I enjoyed  _ The Tale of the Champion _ . Though the battle with Orsino seemed...unlikely.”

Revas took the papers back. “Or utter nugshit. Any mage or templar reading it knows it’s made up. Except his readership is primarily the ill-informed populace, and so it only encourages the worst misconceptions about blood magic--”  
Cassandra chose this moment to enter the kitchen. “Blood magic?” she said suspiciously.

Imladris waved her over. “We’re only complaining about inaccuracies in the  _ Tale of the Champion _ .”

Blearily, Cassandra sat across from her. “Oh. Varric.  _ Ugh _ . What has he done this time?” Eventually the others trickled in, and Revas and Malika took turns roasting Varric over his depiction of Merrill, whom Revas and Imladris had met at three different Arlathvhen. Revas had disliked her; Imladris thought her an inappropriate choice for a First, but interesting as a scholar. Clearly she was causing tensions back in Wycombe, the Free People had freely given sanctuary to those fleeing the fighting in Kirkwall, and they could not rescind it, no matter how frustrating Merrill--or even Orsino--could be. Imladris had always prided herself on her ability to ease tension. There wasn’t anyone back home besides Olivine and Deshanna who could do it, now.

“You made her so much nicer than she actually is,” Revas complained. “I have been forced by the High Keepers to collaborate with her on two different research trips. You completely left out how secretive she can be, or how competitive.”

“And she can’t cook,” Malika added. “We had to take her off kitchen duty, because she would get distracted and burn the food. And,” her mouth twisted, “she gives the worst advice.” The adults all paused at that. Samahl was laughing behind his hand. They probably did not need to know, Imladris surmised. Olivine’s face was set; she knew, and she wasn’t particularly happy about it.

“Aw, Daisy’s not that bad,” Varric protested. “She’s...a bit naive, that’s all.”

“Naivety and pride don’t mesh well together,” Revas said with finality. “Anyway, sister--we ought to be on our way. I’m certain you have Chantry business to attend to. Herald of Andraste.” He looked at her and waggled his eyebrows. Imladris sighed. She had studied Chantry history, but the only bit of the Chant she had memorized was the Canticle of Shartan. Josephine could guide her through the small talk and Cassandra, with her temper, would attract most of their ire.

Josephine, eyes flicking between the siblings, said carefully, “We do have quite a few Chantry officials to speak to. And a representative of House Ghislain has extended an invitation to a soiree before we leave. Perhaps you might rendezvous later tonight? I would not want your official duties to keep you from your family. And I would like to see your mural, if you can arrange a visit to the alienage, Messere Lavellan--”

“Messere Lavellan,” Revas snorted, “I’m sorry, that’s new.” He beamed at Josephine and opened his mouth to say something bright and sharp. Olivine was watching him carefully, and Imladris saw her place a warning hand on his knee. He coughed, suddenly, choking whatever bile he had back down his throat. His smile smoothed over.

Josephine said, “I am sorry? I am afraid I have little experience in the titles of the Dalish clans.”

Imladris said impatiently, “You’re fine, Josephine. My brother forgets we are no longer in the Free Marches.” She shot him a warning glance. Everyone was uncomfortable, she could feel it. Mouse was drumming on the table insistently, a code: tap pause tap tap pause, hurry.

Olivine peaceably interjected, “Goodbyes are always different, particularly when our sister’s involved. You’re lucky, Inquisition.” She smiled sweetly at the assorted Chantry humans in front of her. Olivine, of course, was lovely, a fresh-faced dwarf, a bit taller and thinner than the average woman, with roses in her cheeks and thick brown hair. It was hard not to smile when she did. She looked almost normal, but for the edges of her ears and the wideness of her eyes and, of course, June’s thick vallaslin. “That of all people to tumble out of the Fade, that it was Lavellan, Imladris Ashallin of the Free People of Wycombe.  _ Our _ ambassador, who’s ranged everywhere from Rialto to Minrathous, and the only elf I know who speaks three Dalish dialects, Elvhen, Quenya, Orzish, Orlesian, and the Common Tongue.”

Josephine closed her eyes for a second. “It is why it is so easy to see the hand of the Maker in all of this,” she said. “Though I gather you do not believe?”

Olivine shrugged. “The Dalish believe our gods have been locked away in the Fade, and some have been whispering Imladris survived to bring them back. They think Mythal sent you,” she turned to Imladris, “because of how similar the iconography is, Keeper Zathrian’s convinced, and Clan Ralaferin is ecstatic. Clan Sabrae’s even claiming Marethari had prophesied Mythal’s return. It’s been wild.”  
Imladris thought of the wonderful night she had just had with Felassan, and wondered how that already felt like a lifetime ago. “Wonderful. Tell me not all of the High Keepers have lost their minds.”  
“Oh yes,” Mouse interjected. “Keeper Hawen is utterly furious. He sent a letter to Deshanna saying that it is only his personal good opinion of you that is keeping him from denouncing us as a group of seth’lin opportunists, and that we’re a disgrace to the legacy of Lindiranae. So, we really should be going.” He added, in Dalish, “This conversation is getting increasingly deranged, and I can’t handle Revas being around Chantry people any longer, let’s _go_.”

“You think I can?” Revas muttered. He got up. “Anyway, sister, sule tael tasalal--come to the alienage before dark, alright? There’s some people who want to meet you. And Manon wants a proper party. And a couple wants you to marry them, and you’re the closest thing to a Keeper since the war started.”

Eventually they got them away, with minor bickering, and the inner circle of the Inquisition stayed mostly silent as Josephine and Imladris worked with Olivine to get Revas to let them leave. He kept trying to drag out the conversation, get a rise out of someone, clearly unwilling to let Imladris out of his sight now that he had seen her. It was hard. Imladris didn’t want to leave them. She had spent most of her life trying to keep them together, and her heart ached as she grabbed her brother’s arm and promised she would see them tonight, before they all left, promised that she would get through these Chantry tea parties intact. Her parents had sent five children into the world; only two were left. She did not want to leave him. Finally, Clan Lavellan left. Imladris watched the aravel drive to the alienage until it was out of sight.

“Well,” Varric said finally. “That was a lot.” Solas was watching them, as always, face carefully neutral. When she turned to them he looked like he was going to say something, but at the look on her face, he stopped.

Cassandra said, “It must be difficult. For them. To accept that their kin walks amongst the nobility now. They were frightened, and I am sorry that--”

Imladris snapped, “You thought that was fear? Then you know nothing of the People. Of the elves that serve you your meals. That was rage. We keep our people together, Seeker. You rip someone from their home and you expect there aren’t consequences? That there aren’t people left, missing them? You thought we would trust you? Because you were the Right Hand of the Divine? When Justinia herself presided over the purging of the Denerim alienage and the Dirthaveren of Halamshiral, not to mention of utter  _ bungling _ of the Kirkwall Circle. You thought they would trust you? They didn’t even bring my daughters with them, that’s how little they trust you. And I haven’t seen them in...eight months now. Soon it will be a year.” Harshly, she turned back towards the inn. There was nothing she could do about the situation. Leliana had made that clear. They were paying her, but it was a rental fee. The Inquisition may as well have kept the shackles on. “You said we have meetings to attend? Josephine, what’s the situation? Are they the sort that know the Canticle of Shartan or gasp when you mention the Long March?”

They got to work. Imladris resolved that Clan Lavellan would not come visit again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have written up to chapter 6/8 of this arc, The Hinterlands Never End, and I know exactly what's to come and am just sloughing through it to get to the point where this gets really fun, once we make it to Skyhold. I actually really like the Hinterlands, and completed every quest, region, landmark, and shard in the region. I'm a very casual gamer, and it taught me how to use the goddamn controller, but it sets up how the Inquisition stabilizes Thedas and extends its power very neatly. A shame the game development team had such a strict timeline, and couldn't tighten up the rest of the game to have the subtlety that we love.
> 
> I hope yall are enjoying this, and staying healthy in this pandemic. Don't be afraid to reach out with questions at my tumblr. Just be respectful! And I won't tolerate being talked down to. At all.
> 
> The song that I played over and over again, fleshing out Clan Lavellan, is this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u5XWzvC62EY. 
> 
> Anyway, hope this chapter is a good distraction as we try to put out the fire that is our burning world. Yall be well!


	5. Bend But Do Not Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imladris finds the Dalish. They do not bring her the comfort she thinks she deserves.

On their way back towards Haven, Josephine had them stop at Chateau Ghislain. She had already sent the Red Jenny operative ahead. “We do not need her and Madame de Fer meeting so early on in our collaboration,” the ambassador had explained. Imladris had agreed. She had liked the elfling, to Solas’ dismay. Most of the Red Jennies had folded into Fen’Harel’s Teeth in Wycombe, and the work they were doing in Denerim was fascinating, if short-sighted. But Sera was rude, and angry, and clearly human-raised, and Imladris did not have the patience to balance that level of trauma while navigating whatever Game the First Enchanter of the Imperial Court wanted to play.

They had taken two rooms at Le Arms du Roi in Ghislain, separating neatly between the sexes. Josephine had forced them all into fittings for a formal military outfit, black coat and trousers with gold finishes. Solas had sighed when he had seen it.

“They won’t mistake you for a servant in this,” Cullen said, trying to comfort him.

“I was hoping to avoid notice,” Solas fingered the gold. “Being mistaken for a servant is preferable. I would be better able to offer my services to Sister Nightingale if I wore something less...obvious.”

“Chuckles, you’re a six foot barefaced bald apostate elf,” Varric pointed out. “You can’t stick out more than if you tried.”

Solas made a face. Imladris laughed, touched his shoulder. “They won’t know how to talk to you,” she said. “Or they’ll be outrageous on purpose. You can have some fun with that. You’re a wonderful storyteller. Charm them, for me. For the Inquisition,” she amended.

Solas did not move her hand away. “And you think they’ll be better with you?”  
“They’ll be so much worse. But at least we won’t have anyone complementing us on our exotic, primitive designs.” Imladris dropped her hand. “Josephine, this looks like it belongs on a nutcracker. Can’t we just wear our armor?”

“No,” Josephine said. She was also wearing the nutcracker monstrosity. “While we may not have the official sanction of the Chantry-- _ yet _ \--we are still an institution and we will present ourselves as such. And dress military uniforms are perfect for the message we want to send: warlike, uncompromising, but civilized. Quite unlike the rogue templars terrorizing the Hinterlands and much of Orlais, or the rebel mages. And you look lovely in midnight blue.”

Imladris sighed. “Gadden commissioned something, for me to wear to diplomatic events. He told me to wait to unwrap it.”

Josephine looked smug. “Oh, he told me. But I would like us to wait until we host our first formal soiree in Haven, to unleash that upon the world.” And despite herself, Imladris found herself enjoying Madame de Fer’s party. The allies the Duke of Ghislain had gathered represented the progressive wing of Orlesian politics, predominantly Celene’s supporters, though a few of Briala’s non-elvhen allies were there. None of Celene’s handmaidens were present, which was interesting. She had assumed the former First Enchanter would attempt to broker an alliance between the Empress and the Inquisition. She was engrossed in a deep discussion with Comtesse Helene, who had an elvhen son she was trying to put through university, about the consequences of the war in the Dales on the actual Dalish people when a feathered noble made a grand entrance down the stairs, declaring them all jumped-up opportunists, which, she supposed, was true. She certainly intended to bite the hand that fed her.

Conscious of the crowd gathered around her, Imladris spread her arms wide. “The Inquisition,” she announced, using her Keeper voice, without her Keeper accent, “is working to restore peace and order across Thedas. Order that has been found... _ lacking _ since the sacking of Halamshiral.” Let them wonder which sacking she was referring to. “According to my own code of honor, I would be happy to answer to any charges.” She smiled, and flourished a hand, focusing on raising the temperature of the room just five more degrees. Behind her, Josephine had a hand restraining Cullen, who was going for his sword, and Solas, of all people, was telling Cassandra to hold back.

In the grand Orlesian fashion, ice gently froze the Marquis to the spot, and the Madame de Fer herself glided into view. “My dear marquis, how unkind of you to use such language in my house...to my guests.” Imladris eyed the outfit: a gilded lily, so heavily enchanted it made her nose itch. Varric sneezed. “You know such rudeness is intolerable.” She turned to Imladris. “My dear Lady Lavellan, you are the wounded party in this unfortunate affair. Whatever shall I do with him?”

Imladris eyed the Marquis, enjoying the sport. “The Marquis does not interest me. Do what you like to him.” The two women shared a smile of complicity, and walked off to discuss the true point of the party--political business. It was the high point of the night; from there, Imladris found herself nettled and irritated, and reminded of why she hated the idea of reforming the aristocracy. One lost their sense of reality--how could a mage think the Circles were tolerable? Only if they were Vivienne, First Enchanter to the Imperial Court, who had managed to escape, with prestige and fame. A golden chain, even if it were long, was still a chain. She was glad to be back at Haven by the end of it.

Josephine was ecstatic at the impression Imladris had made at Chateau du Ghislain, though leery of Madame de Fer’s personal agenda. Leliana and Cullen avoided the First Enchanter. Varric told her, over a drink, that she had mistook Solas for a servant, ordering him to help carry her bags into her chamber in the keep. Solas had been keeping to himself since they got back from Val Royeaux, though he was as polite and dissociative as ever. She had hoped, she was not sure what she had been hoping for--perhaps more a rapport with the only other accomplished elvhen mage around her. Most of the elves had joined the rebels, and Minaeve was clearly uncomfortable around her. She was getting lonely. She was always lonely, and she longed to see her daughters again. Revas had promised he would sneak her away if she asked. She could never, but the idea of asking was comforting.

Imladris decided to seek Solas out, to ask him to accompany her to the Hinterlands once more. Leliana wanted Varric to stay with her, to figure out the red lyrium trail, and Vivienne had already ensconced herself in Josephine’s office with Mother Giselle. The villagers of Haven and Inquisition soldiers bowed at her as she passed, and Threnn waved. Even the templars looked respectful. Imladris kept her head high. If this were how human nobles felt all the time, she could see why they would strut. Luckily she had the scars on her face to keep her grounded. She flexed the hand with the mark. It was growing stiff.

Solas, as always, was staring pensively at the Breach. He saw her coming and put his hands down, turning to face her. “Hello,” he said. “Is there something you need?” She came closer and saw his shoulder stiffen. He put his hands behind his back, balancing lightly on his feet. The wind caught at his tunic, and she couldn’t help but briefly glance down. When she looked up he was looking at her too, and she thought: Fen’Harel take me, I need Felassan to come back and lay me, because this is not a good idea.

She smiled instead. “I was wondering if you would be interested in joining my and Cassandra’s expedition to the Hinterlands.”

“Oh,” he said, “that is what I wanted to ask. I felt a relic of my people when last we journeyed there, and marked its location best I could on Commander Cullen’s map. I would be glad to join you, First Lavellan.”

Imladris was curious. “You... _ felt _ something? I couldn’t sense anything beyond the chaos of the Breach.” She flexed her hand, and tried not to think of the widow, how she had been out of her mind with grief. “Was it Dalish? Or something older? I’ve been trying to track Clan Alerion--”

“Older, no doubt,” Solas said shortly. “The People have not wandered those mountains since the fall of Arlathan. I was seeking the dreams of the first refugees from Elvhenan, before the First Blight. There is a temple to Falon’din that has laid in ruin for...ages. I would like to investigate, if we may.”

Imladris drew a bit closer. Solas did not draw back. “I would like that--and we might find a sign of Warden Mahariel’s people. Leliana’s heard rumors of a warden by Lake Luthias, and perhaps he might be in contact with them--well, there’s so much to do. Tell me,” she peered up at him, and caught a glimmer of a smile at the edge of his eyes, “have you always traveled on your own? It’s not like our people, to be solitary.”

Solas replied, “Oh, not at all. I quite agree--hunting alone has never been my choice. More a necessity.” He sighed. “But I have built many lasting friendships. Spirits of wisdom, possessed of ancient knowledge, always happy to share what they have seen. Spirits of purpose have helped me search. Even whisps, curious and playful” and he smiled gently, reminiscing, “would point out treasures that I might have missed.”

Imladris was entranced. “That’s amazing! I’ve had...not unpleasant experiences with spirits, when I was young. Before the shemlen burned the Golden Wood. And my little one, the Dreamer, she says a spirit named Mamaela guides her when she sleeps, to gentle parts of the Fade. I cannot say I have found them.” She smiled ruefully. “I don’t lay my head in gentle places.”

Solas almost reached for her, but dropped his hand. He said cautiously, “Anyone who can dream has the potential, though few try. I could…” He turned away, and regarded the Breach. “I am glad your daughter has found a friend--I can check to make sure her influence is totally benign. There are so few Dreamers left, it is a rare gift....My friends comforted me in my grief and shared my joy. Yet because they exist without form as we understand it, the Chantry declares that spirits are not truly people.”

Imladris snorted. “The Chantry barely regards us as people, despite us clearly being flesh. Fade-touched as the Elvhen may be.”

Solas turned to her. “Exactly! Is Cassandra defined by her cheekbones, and not her faith? Varric by his... _ chest-hair _ , and not his wit? We are not defined by the confines of our flesh, but by our spirit, embodied it may be. A spirit may suffer, pulled into a world it does not understand, screaming like a newborn thrust out of the womb. And like an infant, a wisp needs care, to be protected, from the inequity of the world, until they are solid enough on their own. Else they decay, they starve, they  _ break _ \--just like a child, thrown into the cold.”

Imladris thought about her children. Mathalin was old enough to follow the hunters, now. She had hoped to teach her herself. “I’ve never thought of spirits as children. I see your point. I like it, I like the image.” She crossed her arms and smiled. “Mirwen, growing up with a wisp, reflecting her. Whoever her Mamaela is, reflecting what both of them could be. Making her mark, no matter what happens to her. I like it.”

Solas was surprised. “I...thank you. I am glad you are comfortable with what your child needs, to learn to shape her own path. Few are willing to even entertain such a notion, but it is necessary, for a Dreamer as young as she, with no one else to guide her. None remain from the spirits that guided my first steps, but they shaped me, and I would not nearly be as proficient a mage if I had not had them watching me.”

Imladris stepped closer. Solas did not move away. “You have an interesting way of looking at the world, Solas.”

“I try...but you have not answered my question. What defines us? Our personhood?”

Imladris hummed slightly. “Oh, I look forward to helping you make new friends.”

“That should be.” He stopped, stared at her. “Well.” He was not blushing, he was not, but his eyes changed, rather than staring at her he stopped and saw, took her in, and at the quirk of his mouth she knew he liked what he saw, despite the scars, despite the way they began. His eyes travelled down, pausing at the curve of her waist, and then came back up to her lips. He let his hands fall to his sides, unsure of where to begin next. Imladris bit her lip, and their eyes met. Solas tensed. She felt like she was running her finger on the edge of a knife.

She retreated, but only barely: “That isn’t quite an answer, either. I will see you at the gates, tomorrow at dawn.” She was grinning as she left, his quiet goodbye soft in her ears, and when she snuck a glance over her shoulder she saw him considering her, desire and curiosity writ large on his strange face.

* * *

“Hey Solas!” Sera shouted, as she bashed the bear with her bow. “Droopy-ears-says-what?”

Solas snarled as he froze a second opportunistic bear in time to let Cassandra bash the bear away from Sera. Imladris weaved around them and started throwing fire. “ _ Excuse _ me?” He ducked to keep from getting mauled. “I need help!”

“I’m trying!” barked back Imladris, utterly exhausted. She gave up and started stabbing the second bear with her staff blade, trying to work through the tough skin to slice out its innards.

Sera jumped on the back of the first bear and started wrenching arrows out as Cassandra finished gutting it. “Ugh, you’re no fun.”

Imladris threw a barrier around her and Solas and called up fire, blasting the bear back. Solas shocked it, and it whined as it died. They exchanged an exasperated glance, panting from their fight. “Do you want a healing potion?” she asked him. “Did it claw you?”

“It’s shallow, in a moment I’ll be able to heal it,” he pressed a hand against his side. “I did not expect to be beset upon by  _ two  _ bears, just as Cassandra was suggesting we set up camp.”

Cassandra threw her bags down. “It’s a curse!” she complained. “Every time I say we rest, the bears come. There must be an amulet for this! Like the one for the wolves.”

Imladris caught Solas’ eye as he sat down carefully, avoiding his right side. “I’m not sure these bears are possessed by demons, Cassandra,” she said, trying not to laugh. She felt for her elfroot salve at her belt and handed it to Solas. Was it her imagination, or did he hold her hand for a second longer than necessary? Her imagination, clearly. “I think we just have bad luck.”

“ _ Ugh _ ,” Cassandra said. She stalked down the hill to usher the scouts up. “ _ Bears _ .”

Sera was bustling around the camp, flittering with manic energy, half-setting up one tent only to stumble on some elfroot, which she threw into the fire, making everyone sneeze, chattering the whole while, though it did loosen the mood, and had Imladris feeling pleasantly silly. “Don’t really get what’s got Seeker so mad ‘bout bears, she likes it, the  _ challenge _ . Bet’cha it makes her tingle, not complaining though, it’s right funny when she gets all hot and bothered. And I like the view.  _ Woof _ . Next time let’s camp by a river, I need to wipe the demony bits off, it’s stinky and weird, wonder if it comes in grenades, the  _ stench _ .” She cackled. By this point Solas had taken off his coat and tunic, and was gingerly washing the claw marks. “Solas!” Solas looked resigned as Sera focused on him. They had gotten a little too close to death, in that last battle with templars, then apostates, then bandits, then bears, then demons and a bear, and finally more bears. Sera’s way of dealing with her mortality was charming, but exhausting. They needed more young people around--just to run her through her paces.

“I can put the salve on, lethallin,” Imladris muttered. “Since she’s got you in her sights.”

“Ma serannas,” he muttered back, and they both pretended they weren’t enjoying the excuse to touch. This had to end, but not right now. “Sera?” he said, more loudly. “Yes?”

Sera stared at him. “What? Oh--oh yeah! I want to know--Solas, you can make magic anywhere, right? Ever  _ piss _ it by accident?”

Imladris dropped the salve. A beat passed. She picked it back up again.

“No,” Solas said flatly. Then he cocked his head. “Wait.” He thought about it for a second. Imladris unscrewed the top of the salve and began to gently daub it at his side. He shivered under her touch, leaned into her skin. “No,” he decided finally. They were determinably not looking at each other.

Sera exploded. “What? How would you not remember something like that?”

Drily, Solas said, “We were all young once,” and Imladris  _ lost _ it at that.

Cassandra looked slightly shocked when she got back to the camp, at Sera aghast, Solas smug and shirtless, and Imladris cackling. She looked at Solas questioningly.

“Solas doesn’t piss magic!” Sera blurted, and that sent Imladris into further gales of laughter. Solas sighed and took the salve from her, pointedly. “But he had to think about it first!”

“That..raises more questions than it answers,” Cassandra said. “I do not wish to know.” They restocked quickly. Solas’ wound healed without needing a bandage. They were very close to the temple Solas had mentioned, and Imladris wanted to do a preliminary investigation before heading to Redcliffe Village. Today, she had been hailed by cultists, wept on by sad mages, shot at by templars, and lightly iced by rogue spellbinders. She wanted a bath, and a massage, and to be fucked, deeply and gently, until she felt heat melt the boundaries between her body and the Fade--and with Inquisition around, she was not going to get any of that. The least she could ask for was an interesting segue into her people’s past with Solas. That was all she could ask. She shook her hair out of its bun and combed through it quickly, before tying it back up. Solas was watching her, again. For a second she thought he was going to brush the hair out of her face, but Sera bounded forward. He drew back, face impassive.

“How’d you get those scars, anyway?” Sera said. “Glass exploded? Were you in Kirkwall? When that crazy mage blew everything up?”

Imladris was irritated. “No. And Anders--the Chantry was  _ empty _ when the bomb exploded, he didn’t personally kill anyone, it was the rioting that was the problem. If the guards hadn’t charged, and if the Coterie had timed their raid on Hightown better--no. I didn’t get them in Kirkwall.” By the time the worst of the killing had started, Anders had been secreted away to the Storm Coast, then back to Wycombe after an encounter with the Blind Men. She signaled to Scout Harding. “We’re heading to the ruin down from the Crossroads. Send a search party after us if we don’t return by nightfall.”

Scout Harding saluted. “Stay safe, ser! Not even the elf kids went around that cave. Too many demons. Keeper Atishan put up some wards, but I don’t know if they’ve kept, what with the Breach and all.”

Imladris nodded. “Thank you. We’ll be careful.” They headed off. The Hinterlands were almost peaceful now, with the bandits and the templars mostly cleared out. She had only the apostates to hunt down, a task she was not relishing. She couldn’t blame them for being angry, she couldn’t blame them for wanting more, and though she deeply respected Grand Enchanter Fiona and was hoping to work with them, she knew that she would have likely left the rebel mages to work towards sabotaging the templar hold on the Hinterlands, rather than bracing for a siege she knew they would not win. The Circles were horrific; it was no wonder that some mages had begun to mirror what they had to endure, just to survive. She had seen it in the people Clan Lavellan had taken in, from Kirkwall--in Merrill’s flitting eyes and Bethany Hawke’s discomfort around men, in Samson’s lyrium-shakes, in Orsino’s simmering rage and in the dozens of Tranquil who walked around the Houses of Healing, blankly. A fennec fox shot past, and instinctively Imladris channeled energy into her staff.

“What is it?” Solas asked. “Ah. I sense it--it is nearby.”

Then they heard the woman bellow, “Dread Wolf take you,” and the ozone smell of lightning filled the air. Imladris bounded down the hill--another Dalish needed help, and indeed a young woman, a mage, was facing three shades, but seemed to be dealing with them handily. Imladris summoned fire, up from the earth, as Cassandra straight-up tackled them. The elf stepped back, and eyed them warily. She wore June’s vallaslin.

Imladris held her hand out, in the sign of peace. “Atisha, lethallin. Sael’hahren Lavellan ma, Imladris Ashallin.” She gestured to the other. “These are my companions. Solas.” He inclined his head, staring at her. “Sera. And Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast. We are agents of the Inquisition.”

The woman returned the gesture. “Ma serannas, lethallin.” She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen one of the people. I am Mihris.” She hesitated. “I was the first of Clan Virnehn. I am all that remains. I’ve been travelling, looking for a clan that could use a mage--but with the war, few are willing to chance someone like me. Clan Alerion said they would give me trial--but I would have to prove myself first. There’s an artifact in the temple that’s supposed to strengthen the Veil.” Mihris held both her hands opened, signing that she found herself the lesser party, and would follow her lead. “With the templars, Keeper Atishan did not want to risk any of his people. But he thought I should be able to handle myself.”

Imladris’ face hardened. “I see.” Easier to sacrifice a wayward mage, with no immediate kin to mourn her, who had proven herself unstable, than give her enough support to make sure she would succeed. If Mihris had come to Clan Lavellan seeking asylum, Imladris would have tested her, but she would have gone with her, to see how she did, rather leave her out to die. “I’m certain you would’ve been able to, without us getting involved.” She smiled thinly. “Despite how Clan Virnehn ended, it’s good to see someone survived. I lived in Orlais twenty years ago--I hunted with your clan. Though you would likely have been too young to remember. Your kin were kind to me.”

Mihris looked away. Tapping her fingers against her thigh, she signed: Dread Wolf. Watch your tongue. “I suppose we seek the same quarry,” Mihris said carefully. “I wouldn’t mind company, for investigating the temple. Especially if you speak Dalish with me.”

Imladris got the hint: they would speak more later. “Ma nuvenin, lethallin. Lead the way.”

“Ugh,” Sera complained, “creepy elves are creepy.” Imladris couldn’t disagree. The ancestors did like decorating everything with skulls. The decor begged for possessions; the ancient elves had always seemed irresponsible to her, never burying their dead well.

“The ancestors were a bit weird,” Mihris agreed. Sera shot her a furious look--at what?--and edged closer to Cassandra. Solas looked annoyed, as well. “The ancients, from Arlathan? I’ve never understood why they stuck skulls everywhere.”

They approached the center of the temple, where the demons were waiting. “Clan Raferin argues that the change in decoration style comes mostly from devotees of Falon’din,” Imladris said meditatively, summoning a barrier around them. “It’s a coping mechanism with the sudden introduction of mortality after the invasion of the human tribes. But no one has ever done a solid enough survey on whether the skulls are elvhen or human--the sites I’ve seen, the skeletons are mostly human. I’m willing to concede that it’s definitely part of a death cult, but I think it’s more about the victorious dead and their human conquests, than some melodramatic artistic reaction to aging.”

Mihris snorted. “When in doubt, say it’s ritual. Well.” She hefted her staff. “Let’s go see what the ancestors left us.” With that, the two women simultaneously summoned a barrage of electrical shocks, and Fade-stepped into the thick of it. Mihris hadn’t finished her Keeper training, that was clear--she was a sharp and disciplined fighter, but lacked variety, and her barriers were flimsy. Soon enough the demons were done, with barely a scratch to show for it, and Mihris held out her hand. Imladris took it. She had missed this, the touch of her kin. Shemlem always wanted distance, and Solas was a territory she was not ready to explore. But a fellow Dalish mage was always welcome at her side. She hoped against hope that she could convince her to stay.

“I think it’s that,” Mihris said. They stepped forward together, to examine an odd globular mechanism. “Do you know what we’re supposed to do with it? I haven’t seen anything like this in the Dales.”

“Charge it,” Solas said shortly. “It does not even require a mage. A touch will suffice.” He rapped it sharply, and suddenly the gears whirled, a sphere of sickly green magic whirling around it. The air cleared, suddenly and sharply, as if Solas had whirled a rapid hurricane through. Sera sneezed. “Excellent. The wards are functioning again.”

Mihris let go of Imladris’ hand and stepped away, picking up the Veilfire torch and scrutinizing the walls. Imladris turned to Solas. “You’ve seen these before?”  
“Yes,” Solas said. “They are meant to strengthen the Veil in places where spirits press more clamorously, battlefields and suchlike. I have no doubt that this mage-templar skirmish is not the first bloodbath the Hinterlands has witnessed. But this will help.” He sighed, but tensed suddenly as Mihris reached into a chest. “What is that?”

Mihris froze. “It’s an amulet, hahren.” She held it up: a small wolf pendant, charged with magic. “A gift from the ancestors,” she tried to joke. Solas seemed unamused. Imladris frowned.

Solas held his hand out. “Let me see it.” Mihris, without looking at him, dropped it into his hand, and moved closer to Imladris. His face grew stern. “Ah, yes. A medal of honor, for those who followed the Dread Wolf. This would have been given to his retainers, before he betrayed the Creators.” He crushed it suddenly. Imladris was shocked. She hadn’t taken him as particularly devout, she thought he would want to preserve the past, even a memorial of the greatest traitor the elves had produced. He brushed the dust off his hands. “No matter--it is unlikely anyone would protest its destruction. Likely the last of these.” He noticed Imladris staring at him. “I was fascinated by the Dread Wolf in my youth,” he explained. “As so many angry youth are. So I take a personal interest.”

“Yes,” she said, at a loss. She knew nothing about this man, she realized, and he knew so much, about everything. She took a breath. “Let’s go back to camp before Scout Harding raises an army to find us. Mihris, would you join us? I’d like to hear about your journeys, lethallin.”

Mihris was watching Solas. “I was supposed to bring that amulet back. We know very little about the time before Fen’Harel’s betrayal,” she said. “They won’t--will you go with me, and explain what your companion did? Because they won’t give me trial if you don’t.”

Imladris could feel a headache building behind her right eye. “Yes, da’len,” she said, and took her hand. “And if they don’t give you trial, you can count on Clan Lavellan to welcome you home.”

* * *

Back at camp, melancholy laced around Imladris’ heart like sticky new grass, and she avoided Solas as dusk settled and the Inquisition wound down its nightly routine. Sera was stuffing her face and regaling Scout Harding with her disgust at the elvhen temple. Cassandra was silently washing her armor, watching Mihris. Solas had settled himself under a tree and dozed off; he would wake up to eat and talk a little, and then sink back to sleep like the dead. She resisted the urge to touch his face. She had thought she was too old for this, for a little lust for a mysterious stranger. All the while, Mihris sat at the fire, and tapped the Dread Wolf sign against her thigh, over and over and over. Imladris wanted to wrap her into her arms, the last of Clan Virnehn. The sadness was settling. She took off her mail coat and sat hunched next to Mihris, arms over her knees, looking up at her.

In Dalish, she said, “Are you alright?”

“No.” Her face was red and black in the firelight. Imladris grew closer.

“I’m sorry. That was a stupid question.”

Mihris shook her head, wiped at her eyes. “Why did your man destroy the amulet? Just out of superstition? He’s thin-blooded, he’s never earned the blood-writing. Why did you let him?”

Imladris was taken aback. “He’s not my man, we’re not...I didn’t think he’d do that either,” she admitted. “And he’s not thin-blooded, his old tongue is better than mine. I think he’s from Arlathan Forest, or west of thereabouts...if I had known he would do that, I would have stopped him.” The excuse felt lame in her mouth. “I’m sorry. I will vouch for you, to Clan Virnehn. You had those demons well-handled before I stepped in.”

Mihris scooted closer. “It’s not just that.” Her eyes flickered around the camp, making sure no one was listening. “Are you sure he doesn’t know Dalish?”

“Absolutely,” Imladris said drily. “He’s rather pedantic about it.”

“Well, then,” Mihris bit her lip nervously. “I met a man who looks like him. Almost sick, the way he does. Though now he’s looking much better. He calls himself Slow Arrow. And he told me to be wary of any lone barefaced elves like that one, who wander like a hunter--that it could be the Dread Wolf in disguise. With this rip to the Fade,” she said fervently, “it’s like a window back to the gods. Maybe he isn’t the Wolf himself, he could be a follower, but Slow Arrow told me to be on the lookout, and warn as many of the People as I could. That the gods are coming back. And they’re not what we expect. Not what we want them to be. That they won’t like what we’ve become, and try to destroy us to bring the old world back. They’re not what they’re supposed to be.”

Imladris was incredulous. “You think  _ Pride _ is the Dread Wolf?” She could feel a smile tugging at her lips. “Child, be reasonable. You’d think he’d have more hair.”

Mihris looked at her furiously. “I was  _ possessed _ by one of the Forbidden Ones! I dare not say his name, but he told me--big things are coming. He left something in mind.” She shuddered, curling into herself. “I don’t know what it is. But it’s told me to keep moving. Keep warning. Find the Dalish, seek them out, warn them. The gods are coming. And it’s not what we want.” She grabbed Imladris’ hand. Imladris, surprised, let her. “What do you think this is, but their power? To warp the Veil? You have Mythal’s favor, you bear her brand, and from what I’ve heard--you and your people are the ones elves go to for justice, in the Free Marches. You brought your brother back from slavery. You survived the Fade, where the gods are locked away. You  _ have _ to be their emissary--but of what?”

Imladris snatched her hand back. “I should have known Slow Arrow would have something to do with this. This must be Briala’s doing. I am  _ not _ Mythal’s herald. I am  _ not _ Mythal. The justice we bring to Wycombe is  _ collective _ \--you may as well say it’s Keeper Istimaethorial, she does as much for me. And as for my brother--that was mostly House Cadash, and the Fog Warriors of Seheron, and the self-freed former slaves of Tevinter themselves that brought him back to me. I can’t take credit for any of that. It’s luck, child. Bad luck. Not  _ divine favor _ . The gods have nothing to do with me, and I’ll have nothing to do with them. If they ever existed at all--”

Mihris said furiously, “Briala’s found a fucking  _ pocket dimension _ that our ancestors made, if you’re not telling me that’s  _ divinity at work _ , I--”

Imladris threw her hands up. “Fine! I just don’t think we can play god-in-the-gaps just because we don’t understand how something was made, just because we don’t understand it, doesn’t mean it’s got a god behind it. The quicklings think that their Maker made the Veil, but we know our people predate it. Saying that--whatever Briala found--is the work of a god is as foolish as the Andrastians saying the Veil came before the people. It’s ridiculous.”

“I’m not trying to argue theology!” Mihris exclaimed. “I’m just saying that maybe we should all be careful, because  _ shit _ is getting  _ weird _ !” Imladris softened as Mihris began to giggle.

“What’s the joke?” Imladris said, amused. “What do you call a gathering of more than one Dalish? An argument?”

Mihris laughed. “It’s good to be amongst the people again.” She reached for Imladris’ hand. “Did you mean it, that your clan would be able to offer me sanctuary?”

Imladris put her arm around her and held her close. She had to be about Sera’s age, nineteen at the most, not that much older than her own girls. “Absolutely. You will be given a place with us and asked to prove yourself, but you will always have refuge in the Friendly Homes. We don’t turn people away.”

Mihris was still. “I should go back to Clan Alerion. To at least prove to them that I’m a survivor. But they’ll say it’s the power  _ he _ gave me. That I’m just his relic. His  _ revenant _ .” She said the last word in Common. “But I’m still me--I’m still Mihris, child of Surana, First and last of Clan Virnehn.” She was close to tears. “He took everything from me. My fiance. My family. But he kept me alive.”

Imladris sighed. “I...when the men who took me from my family, who beat me, who r-raped me, who carved up my face, when they kept on  _ not _ killing me, I thought that too. That they were the ones keeping me alive. They were the ones who chose. But I escaped. I got away. And I kept--I  _ keep _ living, I stay Imladris, and that is  _ my _ choice. The one that I make every moment. Not to succumb. To stay myself. To endure.”

Mihris hid her face in her shoulder, and the women fell silent as night drew in and the camp grew quiet around them. Imladris could taste spring in the wetness of the night. She had been with the Inquisition for five months now, and this was the first one of her people she had seen since Val Royeaux. She had closed every rift she had seen in the confines of the Hinterlands. She had killed so many men, templar and mage alike, more than she had in her bloodied life. She sang quietly as the fire crackled, “Home is behind, the world ahead, and there are many paths to tread, through shadows to the edge of night, until the stars are all alight.” She smoothed Mihris’ hair. “The world behind and home ahead, we'll wander back to home and bed. Mist and twilight, cloud and shade, away shall fade, away shall fade!” She heard movement at her other side and tensed. Mihris lifted her head. It was Solas, warming his hands at the fire.

“That was lovely,” he said. “A lullaby?”

“A walking song,” Imladris said. “Common in the Free Marches.” Mihris pulled away from her and backed away from Solas.

“I think I’ll go to bed,” she said. “Can I set myself up in your tent, First Lavellan?”  
“Of course, da’len,” Imladris said. “It’s the green one. We tend to all pile in together. We’ll head down to Redcliffe Village to resupply in the morning, and then you may take us to Clan Alerion. Try and get some sleep. Tomorrow will be harder than today.”

Solas settled next to her, a careful handbreadth apart. He waited until Mihris was out of earshot, then asked, “What were you arguing about? It woke me up.” He sounded a bit irritated.

Imladris laughed. “How dare we. Theology, if you can believe it. She wasn’t pleased you destroyed the amulet. I’m not either, for that matter. How dare you.” She was trying for indignant, but exhaustion had her coming up as silly instead.

Solas was irritated. “Did she think I would have called upon the curses of the Dread Wolf for destroying it? How quaint. As if I’d...I had always considered myself beneath the notice of the gods.” He leaned back on his hands. “I suppose I was disappointed. I thought we may find more, that something would still yet linger of the ancients. But that was a mausoleum. More to folly, than to any of my people.”

Imladris was surprised at his vehemence. “It  _ is _ a temple to Falon’din, Solas. What did you expect?”

Solas let out a delighted laugh. “True. More tasteful decor, perhaps.” He smiled at her, shifting a little closer. He peered at her, suddenly concerned. “You’re tired.”

Imladris shrugged. “I always am.” He looked at her expectantly. She sighed. “Did you hear of what happened to Clan Virnehn?”

Solas looked at her warily. “What have you heard?”

“Keeper Thelhen had summoned one of the Forbidden Ones to guard the clan,” she said. “And he was sacrificing his people to it. When the Empress’ champion let it loose, it killed everyone but Mihris and the children. It left Mihris alive because she let it possess her. I don’t know why it left the children alive, I thought only  _ Orlesians _ did that--and Fen’Harel himself, I suppose. The High Keepers decided to annul the clan. None of the Dalish in Orlais would take her or the children in. The elder of the alienage of Halamshiral finally offered them shelter, though he wouldn’t let her stay. They left her wandering, because she was kept alive. And now Clan Alerion is toying with her life, the poor girl. It’s cruel,” Imladris said furiously. “It’s cruel and enough cruel things happen to us without our own people having to add to it. Why are they punishing her for surviving? It’s not like she chose to live, when the others died. And honestly, I admire her, for making it so far. Alone. I don’t know if I would have been able to do the same--even when they killed the elders of my clan, I still had my agemates. They didn’t wipe us all out. And she still endures.”

Solas’ jaw was tight. She had upset him. He looked away. “Is it bravery?” he asked. “Or just passivity? The animal instincts are strong. I think it’s more difficult to die.”

Imladris touched her face. “You’re wrong,” she said. She looked into the fire. She had never seen someone she loved burn, but she had burned plenty of people. She remembered the screams of the Duke of Wycombe’s first wife, whom she had burnt alive in her carriage. She wrinkled her nose. She remembered the smell--not like the smell of pine and fertile earth, she was in the Hinterlands, twenty years had passed from that moment. “The world we live in does not want us to survive. It makes it as difficult as possible, to trudge through, day after day. Massacres and famines and Blights--now the Breach. It would be easy to die. To let them kill me. To stop searching for food, snap my bow and give up hunting. But how could I explain that to my kin?” She looked at him. “How could I excuse that to the ones who came before me? Our people have suffered so much. What’s my personal suffering, in the wake of all that’s come before? I carry them with me, so it all could mean something. That my children will suffer less.” She swallowed, hard, against the tears rising up her throat. She ran a hand over her eyes, breathed. The fire was warm. The night was quiet. The stars were out.

They sat in silence, lost in their own disparate memories. Finally, Solas said, “You are right. I am sorry. I am...I am also tired often, these days. And it is exhausting, that her story is so familiar. So commonplace. I had hoped I would find the world better, when I woke. But every time I wake, I am reminded: so little ever changes, and never in the way we hoped.”

“It does, though,” Imladris protested. “Never enough, and never quickly enough. But it does change. A better world is possible.”

Solas looked at her sadly. “Yes, it is.” He drew away from her, and went into the tent. Imladris stayed staring at the fire a little while longer, and then went to bed.

* * *

She woke up to Sera’s arm thrown carelessly over her body, as Cassandra snored. Carefully she disentangled herself, and stepped out of the tent into the soupy foggy morning. Solas and Mihris were already up, and she saw them on opposite sides of the fire, carefully conversing in Elvhen. Mihris had a thick Dalish accent. Solas was struggling to understand her, but they were losing their skittishness. Imladris slid between them, and Solas passed her a wooden bowl of porridge. It smelled sweet. She smiled at him. He had made breakfast today, then. He always used too much honey.

“Any java?” she asked. “Tea?”

Solas wrinkled his nose in disgust. “I do not understand how you can drink so much of it,” he complained.

Mihris caught Imladris’ eye. “That’s how I know you’re not Dalish,” she said. “All the Dalish I know love tea. It’s practically a cultural institution.”

“Along with arguing, and enduring beyond all hope, and making bad decisions,” Imladris continued.

Solas was silent for a second. “I don’t think that’s exclusively Dalish,” he said. “Never coming to consensus seems the only constancy amongst the People. Ironically.”

Imladris patted his arm vaguely. “I cannot debate matters of culture seconds after I wake up, lethallin. Mihris, if you heat the kettle, I’ll dig up some tea.” She checked the crates by the requisition table and found a tin of her favorite smoked tea from Nevarra. She whistled a song Mahanon had taught her, in Orlesian Dalish, “Dh’èirich mi moch madainn cheòthar…” To her surprise, Mihris joined in, and they sang together as they stoked the fire and made the tea, “Hò gurie hòm ò, ’s shuidh mi air a chnocan bhòidheach! Hi rim i call eile, hò a ho hì rì, eu rubh i a ho eu, hò gurie hòm ò.” The two women sang as the dawn touched the foggy morning, drinking tea. Solas watched, though Imladris saw him tapping a finger against his knee in time. 

Sera stumbled out of the tent as they were reaching the end of the song. “Ugh, elves,” she grumbled. “So many fucking songs. Better way to wake up, right? Fucking songbirds shit. Every elf I know, always singing. Andraste’s tits!”

Imladris laughed. “It’s a good way to get the day to move faster, leth--Sera. Don’t you know any of them?”

Sera scowled. “Shit.” She stomped over to the fire. “Ugh, gruel. Tea. Got some cheese?”

“Solas made it sweet,” Mihris said warily.

“ _ Ugh _ .” Sera threw her hands up. “Elves. Too many fucking elves. When I signed up, I thought it was gonna be a Chantry thing. Full of naughty sisters. Not  _ elves _ .” She started going through the crate of food supplies, grumbling the whole while. Solas sighed deeply.

“What’s her problem?” Mihris said.

“Elves, apparently,” Solas said drily.

“But she’s an elf.”

“I’ve asked her about that, yes.”

“Oh. How’d she respond?”

“She threw a rock at me and said something about cracking eggs.”

“Right then.” Mihris looked at Imladris. “You keep her around for what, exactly?”

Imladris shrugged. “Humility?” Solas snorted.

They descended upon Redcliffe Village in full Inquisition force, Charter bearing the heraldry. Imladris wished she had brought Master Dennet with her, or Cullen, someone the rebel mages knew and trusted. Still, they opened the gates to let them through, and the townspeople seemed less panicked than she expected. Grand Enchanter Fiona had taken care of her own; these people looked to her son for guidance, after all--greatest open secret of all Thedas, that King Alistair had a elvhen mage for a mother. They had the same eyes and nose, after all. The resemblance was noticeable. She directed the scouts to bring supplies to the Chantry. Sera was tense, Cassandra curious: mages thronged the streets, open and confident amongst the people, for once out of their Circle garb, with those despicable chains around the waist. They dressed normally. Many were dressed for war, and some Dalish were among them.

“Friggin’ mages,” Sera whispered. “Makes my nose itch.”

Mihris turned around to stare at her. “I’ve never met such a thaumaphobic elf,” she muttered. “It’s...not like our people.” Imladris tapped her sharply, signing at her: silence. Don’t let her hear you. Mihris stepped further away from Sera. They separated to gather information: Cassandra went to question the nobles still left, Sera to chatter amongst the people, and Mihris to arrange a meeting with Clan Alerion. Solas went to the healing huts, to offer help, and to ask about the apostates. He gave her a hard look before he left.

“Be careful,” he said. “The Veil here is thin, and warped in a way that I have never seen before. I cannot predict how it will react to your mark.”

Imladris smiled. “I’ll take care, lethallin. And be careful, as well--the townspeople are welcoming so far, but we’re apostates. And you’re not Dalish. Be on your guard. May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent.”

“Indeed.” He seemed amused at that, and they all went their separate ways. Imladris wandered, looking for mages in military uniform. She spoke to a half-Dalish hahren, who asked her to place flowers on his wife’s grave; she promised a man with one eye she would look for his magic ram, shaking her head at herself. Finally, she made her way to the tavern, hoping to eavesdrop in a place where she would not be too conspicuous. On her way there, she ran into a young elvhen mage, who jumped at the sight of her.

“Do you have a problem, da’len?” she asked, hand on her staff, just in case.

“No!” he said, eyes wide. “No, sorry, you just--you look like a friend of mine. I’m sorry. My name’s Lysas, I’m from the Kirkwall Circle. You wouldn’t--you wouldn’t happen to have a younger sister, would you?”

Imladris started violently, hope and anger and fear swirling together. She grabbed him. “Yes--yes--did you say  _ Kirkwall _ ?” she demanded. “I thought most of them fled to the Dalish, what--what is her name, how old is she? Did she have a Dalish name?”

Lysas threw his hands up. “Halla’den! She’s named Halla’den, she was--she’s maybe thirty? Older than me, I was nine when they brought me into the Circle and she had already gone through the Harrowing. She tried to look after the elves, the best she could--since the templars were worse to us.”

Imladris’ breath hitched, her jaw dropped. She released him and took a step back. “That’s her name,” she said. “The templars took her from us almost twenty-five years ago. Halla’den Ashallin Lavellan. The halla-child. She had a knack for nature magic.”

Lysas had an odd expression on his face, a mixture of sorrow and anger. “Lady--”

“You don’t have good news to tell me, do you.”

“I don’t.”

* * *

Imladris walked through a silent, colorless world, words around her echoing into meaningless. She felt like a calf, stunned before slaughter: her sister had survived templars, the Kirkwall Circle, and the first few years of the war only to be ripped apart by the Breach. She had joined the apostates in the Witch Wood. The mages were saying she had let a despair demon take her. The mages were saying she had survived Meredith only to become an abomination, after the fact, the worst of the blood mages: killing other elves, to let a more terrifying kind of despair in. She didn’t even have the decency to be good at it; Despair had quickly overpowered her, and the apostates were using her as a glass cannon against the templars. By the docks she ran into Cassandra, who was interrogating a dwarf, badly, about how the mages were getting their lyrium. The dwarf just kept pretending not to understand Common, which was ridiculous, since Common was the modern language of Orzammar. He kept repeating to Cassandra, “Where is the bathroom?” in Orzish, over and over again. Imladris could not feel enough to laugh. The fog was beautiful, swallowing the boats still on the water. If she grabbed a fishing rod, she could steal a boat and feed herself and sail all the way back to Wycombe. She would see the grand statue of Keeper Galadriel, welcoming her to the Friendly Homes. She could rest again amongst the birches of the Golden Wood, but what would she say to her brother?

Cassandra finally gave up in disgust and stalked over to the boxes where Imladris was perched. “I cannot get anything certain out of the merchants,” she complained. “But a man named Giles told me that Arl Eamon has left Redcliffe to lodge a protest to the King, for sending the mages here, after all the village has suffered. And I do not think the Arl likes the former Grand Enchanter much, even though she is the King’s mother. Perhaps it is because she is the King’s mother, though I thought we were beyond such prejudice, especially since the Dalish were so important to defeating the Blight.”

Imladris closed her eyes. Cassandra, concerned, put her hand on her arm. “Are you alright?” she asked. “What is the matter?”

Imladris did not know what to say. She turned her gaze back to the sea, and wished herself beyond the horizon. She cleared her throat rustily. “I mentioned that I had a sister taken to the Kirkwall Circle.”

Cassandra froze.

“I met a mage who recognized the resemblance. Apparently we look alike. Despite the vallaslin, the scars. She was only six when the templars took her, all children look alike at that age, I didn’t think she would grow to look so much like me. But. She joined the apostates, and let a demon take her.” Imladris tipped her head back and stared into the gloom. The Breach still shone a sick green through the fog. Her hand twitched slightly, and she rubbed at the deep ache of the mark. “She’s been ravaging the Witchwood. The demon,” she corrected herself, “has been ravaging the Witchwood. It wasn’t starvation that killed her, or the templars, or the Circle, or the war even. But the Breach.” She glanced at Cassandra. There was sympathy there. “It’s harder on the elves. Since we are more closely connected to the Fade. But we, we have our own training, every Dalish mage learns how to filter the Fade as soon as they manifest their magic, it’s the first thing we teach a child, but they took her before Deshanna could--” She stopped herself, drew a ragged breath, covered her eyes with her hand. The Mark was stinging worse. “It is my responsibility to deal with this,” she said, more to herself than Cassandra. “I will take Mihris with me. After we meet with Fiona, with Clan Alerion. I must.”

Cassandra dropped her hand. Hesitantly, she said, “I can go with you, if you wish. You do not have to deliver the final blow.”

Imladris felt that insult like a physical blow. She reared back, and snarled, “The templars took her away from me in life. I will not let them take her death from me, too.  _ I _ will guide her back. I will perform her funeral rites. She deserves that much.”

Cassandra pursed her lips. “I did not mean--so be it. Do you want me to tell the others? Sera may be--unkind.”

Imladris closed her eyes. She did not want to deal with Sera, or with what Vivienne would say, if word got back to her in Haven. Even Solas would be too much, she did not know what he would say, what would broach the almost-intimacy they were cultivating, she did not want him there. “Don’t tell them. I’ll take Mihris with me--tell them we have a Dalish ritual to perform. It’s her responsibility too. As a Dalish First. And I need to see how she will respond, when the demon attempts to jump to another body. Tell them it’s ritual. That Clan Alerion told us we had to prove that we were not susceptible to possession before letting us into their village. They’ll believe anything. I’ll tell Leliana and Cullen myself, when we return. But the others--” Imladris stopped, overwhelmed.

Cassandra held her hand out. “You have my word,” she said simply, and they shook on it.

* * *

Imladris and Cassandra rendezvoused with Solas, Sera, and Mihris by the market. Sera had found a Red Jenny cache, which Imladris had quickly given to Recruit Whittle, to send to the refugees at the Crossroads. Solas had given all the elfroot and spindleweed he had gathered to the healer. Mihris had the best news--one of the Dalish liaisons to the rebel mages was willing to bring her and Mihris, and only her and Mihris, to their camp, to discuss the Inquisition’s position in the Hinterlands and Imladris’ own journey from the Free Marches.

“It’s tense here,” Sera said. “Keep expecting thunder or some shit. Fog doesn’t help. But itchy. And not because of Breach, or all the magic shit. Things are moving weird. People keep repeating themselves. And there’s Vints about, but not the slaver kind. Classier, you know. Magister type shit. I saw some of them, by the tavern. With the big mage lady. She didn’t look too pleased, though. Thought all you apostates liked each other.”

“Big mage lady?” Cassandra repeated. “Do you mean Grand Enchanter Fiona? She should have been expecting us. Leliana sent a letter.”

Imladris’ eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, Vints? Slavers? There aren’t enough ships at the harbor for that, and Clan Alerion guards the rest of the coast. They can’t be--”

Sera said, irritable, “Vints. They’re all slavers, aren’t they? But nah, they were classier than that. Mages.  _ Fancy _ looking mages. Like Vivienne but all pointier. All men too. Smelled weird. But all men smell weird. You too, Solas. Like halla.” Solas sighed. Mihris, discreetly, tried to sniff Solas, then sniffed herself. Cassandra caught Imaldris’ eyes helplessly, and Imladris looked away before she could laugh. She needed to say something, before Sera pulled the situation into an even more surreal direction.

“Well, then,” she said, to fill up space. “I suppose we should go to the tavern.” So they went, and were confronted with more questions than answers. 

Outside the village, they were met with one of the Dalish mages, who bore Elgar’nan’s vallaslin. She looked at her with respect: that was a hard tattoo to sit through. She announced herself in Common, for the benefit of the others: “First Lavellan, Imladris, daughter of Ashalla. Agent of the Inquisition.” 

Mihris said shortly, “You know who I am.”

The mage considered her. “Indeed. I am Telana, Second of Clan Alerion, cousin to the Hero of Ferelden. As we all are. The seth’lin will not follow us?”

Solas put his hand on Sera’s shoulder to keep her from speaking. Sera flinched and made to bite him. Solas rolled his eyes and steered her away.

“No,” Imladris said. She turned to Cassandra. “I will see you at Haven. Send scouts if you do not hear word of me in two days.”  
Cassandra searched her face for weakness, but she stayed impassive. “Hunt well,” she said, and led Solas and Sera off.

“What’s she hunting?” she heard Sera asking. “Is it food? Is it good food? Is it something better than ram? Do the Dalish have better shit than ram? Don’t like the elfy elves, but anything’s better than ram cutlets for days.”

“We’re not invited,” Solas said flatly, as he and Cassandra ushered her away.

“You have chosen some odd companions,” Telana commented. “Flat ears and templars and abominations. Not what I expected from the honored First of Clan Lavellan.”

Imladris, instead of bristling, smiled instead, and she was proud that she did not even bare her teeth. Did she really think she had a choice? “Why don’t you take us to Keeper Atishan? I’m not in the mood to tell the same story twice.”

“Fair enough.” They flitted through the hills, winding towards the high cliffs when Clan Alerion hid its village, near enough to the river to still be able to water the halla and fish. The town was walled, with wood rather than stone, and two wooden carvings of Fen’Harel with a lamp hanging from his mouth framed the gate. Absently she patted the snout of one for good luck, as Telana signalled to the guards to heave open the gates. The fog was melting into a quiet rain, and she shifted a damp lock of hair out of her eyes as she and Mihris followed Telana through the gates. The layout of the village was simple: small homes built out of aravels on each side of the main thoroughfare, with a temple to the Creators right at the head of the road. Halla nosed about the houses freely, nibbling at the gardens. Some things never changed. Imladris guessed that Clan Alerion now boasted about two hundred people--large for a Fereldan clan, after the Blight. The Free Marcher, Antivan, and Navarran clans were larger, but the North was generally safer. Telana strode right to the temple.

“Stay here,” she instructed, and Imladris and Mihris settled under the eaves as Telana negotiated with whomever was inside--Keeper Atishan, no doubt. Mihris was chewing at her lip, fingers tapping restlessly at her staff.

“Nervous?” Imladris asked.

“Feel like the Dread Wolf’s got my scent,” Mihris said, “and his jaws are about to snap my neck. I needed that amulet. I hope your word’s enough, hahren.”

“It is,” Imladris said. “And no matter what happens, you have a place with Clan Lavellan. Once we,” hunt down my sister, “finish the abomination. You can decide.”

Mihris said, “I’m tired of choosing.”

The door to the temple opened. Telana gestured to them, and they rose. Imladris paused before she entered the threshold, bowed her head, and prayed, Mythal do not lead me astray, Elgar’nan let me shine with your fire, Andruil be my blade. She breathed it to the gods, and walked down the dark aisle to the sanctuary, where the gods stood shining. Keeper Atishan sat cross-legged beneath them. He was dedicated to Dirthamen. His robes were green, and his hair white and cropped short. He was old, not as old as Marethari his sister, who took the Sabrae from Alerion and across the Waking Sea, and certainly not as old as Zathrian, who only shrugged when asked about his age. Imladris guessed he’d seen about a century. There was a point where the elves stopped aging, comfortable in a spry old age. Atishan looked like a middle-aged human; he was not comfortable yet.

She paused in the middle of the aisle, to admire the statues fully: beautiful burnished wood, carefully painted flesh tones, each about seven feet tall. Alerion had not adorned them with gold, times were too hard and too practical for that, but they had not stinted in their craftwork. She wished her brother was there, to show them. He’d be trying to chip paint off to study the pigment.

“Andaran atishan, lethallin,” the Keeper said formally. “Welcome to our hold.” He gestured for her to sit next to him, under the gaze of the gods. She took a seat. Mihris remained standing before them. “It is an honor that a daughter of Clan Lavellan comes to visit. So far from home.” His tone was bland. If it were an honor that she were here, then what was Mihris’ petition for refuge? Imladris relished politics, she’d grown up playing the different factions in Clan Lavellan, the alienage, and Wycombe. Keeper Atishan would be nothing, compared to what she had faced down and won at home.

“You were hard to find,” Imladris replied. “I am glad to see the People careful and flourishing, in times such as these. Still surviving.” There, parried. She folded her arms. “I’ve heard you’ve given refuge to the rebel mages.”

Atishan paused. “We had, yes,” he said. “Grand Enchanter Fiona did the People proud. But the Circle mages needed more than a few Dalish clans standing with them--I know your people took whoever did not want to fight from Kirkwall and Ostwick. But we are not enough, not as we are now. And Fiona went looking. She needed Ambassador Briala. She needed King Alistair. But the seth’lin don’t care too much for their kin in cages, do they.” The Hero of Ferelden was his daughter. She had written a piece in  _ Fen’Harel’s Teeth _ , about how the nobles of Denerim sold elves straight to Tevinter, and how the new elfblooded King turned his blade against the slavers. It was becoming clear that Alistair only fought for his friend, when it was convenient for him. He couldn’t do it for his own mother. But one deal stuck and slowly enraged her: Briala turned Fiona away, when had Briala met with Fiona, when they were all in Val Royeaux Briala had sent Felassan to her instead, saying she was at the front, but all that time, she was in the city, and the three of them could have met, they could have engineered a rebellion across Thedas, they could have saved the mages from Tevinter slavers, but instead, Briala lied. Had she lied to Felassan as well? Had Felassan lied to her? He would not have fucked her, if he had been lying to her, he wasn’t like that, he wouldn’t do that to her.

“I’ll kill her myself,” Imladris said calmly.

“ _ Fiona? _ ”

“Briala.”

“Ah.” Keeper Atishan looked abashed. “Good. Well. I thought you were her friend. She founded your group, didn’t she?”

“Oh, yes,” Imladris said. “And she has proven herself as tricky as the Dread Wolf. But Mythal guides my path. But--is that why you sent that hunter to warn me? Because Tevinter was here? Mihris, First of Clan Virnehn, claims that the gods are stirring from beyond the Breach. I thought it might have something to do with that.”

Keeper Atishan cast a dismissive eye to her, who was still standing before them, silent and still. “We are not as superstitious as our kin in Orlais. And I will not act on the word of a mage who let a Forbidden One take her.”

“I had no choice,” Mihris said.

“He  _ gave _ you a choice. That is what he is known for, isn’t it? Isn’t that why he spared you? To tell the Dalish they only have two choices--death or damnation? Better that you had died with honor, than disgrace the legacy of Dirthavaren.”

“I battled demons you were too weak to kill,” Mihris snarled. “I found your  _ fucking _ amulet. I activated the artifact you couldn’t rescue, and strengthened the Veil. I have done all you have asked of me. All I ask is a place to rest. I have proven myself. I will not be tempted again.”

“Will you?” Keeper Atishan said. “How can I trust you? Your reputation is  _ bad _ , lethallin. How can I trust a First who failed in her duty? We are supposed to guard the People against abominations, no matter how close. No matter what they offer.”

“Mihris has proven herself worthy,” Imladris cut in. “One of my companions, a hedge mage named Solas, sensed the artifact. When we came upon the temple Mihris had done short work of the demons, despite being outnumbered. We activated the artifact. She found the amulet, but Solas, in his own superstition, destroyed it, afraid to invoke the legacy of the Dread Wolf.” She hoped Solas would never hear how she was describing him. Varric, though, might find it funny, she might tell him. “Listen. One of the mages told me an abomination is roaming the Witchwood.” My sister. “Mihris and I will deal with it. Will that be proof enough of her honor? You trust me, don’t you?”

“The Slow Arrow of Clan Lavellan,” Atishan said. “The one we sent to Val Royeaux. The one who stole back the coronation stone. Sister to the man who stole himself back from Tevinter. First of the only Dalish clan to challenge the nobility, and to survive. As of yet. The so-called Herald of Andraste. Though Mythal would be more likely, by your vallaslin. And some are even going as far to say you are hers. It would be foolish to dismiss you.”

“I am Mythal’s,” Imladris said. “But I will never claim to be her herald. But yes. It  _ would _ be foolish to dismiss me.” She stared him down. “The abomination in the Witchwood took my sister’s body. We lost her to the Kirkwall Circle. The rebel mages could not keep her safe. Mihris and I will hold each other in check, to make sure the other does not falter. Give us an aravel, and we will cart the body back here, and give her the honors that she is due.”

Keeper Atishan was impassive. “And your companion won’t burn the body before it gets here?”

Imladris almost struck him. Instead, she got up and gestured to Mihris to follow as she walked away. “Come on,” she said shortly. “We have a demon to slay.”

* * *

They darted into woods swift and silent, slipping into the shadows and avoiding campfires. The roads were quiet, thanks to the Inquisition. Imladris did not think, could not think, only felt the night-sounds like the predator she was trained to be. She was the night, she was the breath stolen from sleep, not even the fennec started from their burrows at her soft feet. The stars burned overhead, the two moons greenish in the Breach.

The stench of carrion slowed them as they approached the Witchwood. No one had bothered to clean up the apostates or their sacrifices. They stepped onto the gorey plain and towards the bloodstained ice. Blood had kept it bound to the earth. It would take more than two mages to melt it. Mihris shivered, and summoned a small fire to warm her hands. Imladris signed at her: put that fucking thing  _ out _ , but it was too late, at the ripple of the Veil the bodies she had not bothered to bury began to reave, mutilated and rotting, spewing their own guts, they threw themselves at her, and Imladris slammed her staff down and barriered them and called the fire, because now they lost the element of surprise, what the fuck was the girl thinking, rage and incredulity blew out a spellbinder missing half his jaw and one of his eyes, and Mihris shocked a templar corpse to bits.

The night began to thrum. They fought their way through corpses, slipping on the ice, towards the old shrine. She could feel the Veil rippling like chicken skin, gross and slimy, something wanted out, something want in, she snarled and said to Mihris, “It’s here, it’s coming,” and the last shambling corpse disintegrated as something shrieked the night in half, she knew that call, the woman in the cell next to her, weeping and wailing, the screech the scream the baying and the laughter as the woman screamed, she was next, she wouldn’t stop screaming a siren through the night the scream never ended and she had curled up into a ball unable to bear it fingers pressed into her ears bloody and when she opened her eyes the scream was caught there they have left the corpse cool and bloody and faceless fingerless toeless in her cell and though the lips were gone Imladris had the scream in her head it was caught in her flesh the stone the iron she was next and they would make her scream like that the shriek as they bayed with laughter, the cell next to her she had never learned the woman’s name. 

Imladris breathed, called the cold inside, let her mana pool and regenerate. Mihris did the same. It was as they had been trained. “Let it come,” she told the night. “I am still here.”

The air thickened and swelled as fog blotted the bloody ice away, coated the rotting pieces of people scattered in a ring about them, and it stunk sweet and sour and rotten and bloody like gangrenous flesh, almost spiced, and she gagged as it tangled in her hair, around her throat, mingled with her breath, and Mihris was already on her knees as the screaming rang through the night, Imladris snarled “Where are you? Come and face me, come and face me, you  _ coward _ ,  _ demon _ ,  _ abomination _ , where--”

Fear, shambling and tattered, moaned inches before her, oozing pus out of its rotting wounds. It had Imladris’ face, clean of scars and vallaslin. Crows had plucked its eyes out, but the lips were there, her father’s hooked nose, her mother’s high cheekbones, the hair was almost red and longer than she had ever grown it. At least the body was still clothed. The tip of the right ear was missing. It wore the blue robes of the Circle Mages, but the circle at the waist was ripped open.

Fear’s mouth opened and the jaw dropped right off, and Imladris screamed.

When they were done, there was not much left of the body. Imladris cried silently as she bathed its wounds, wiping the mud and blood and rot away as best as she could. Mihris gathered the pieces of the others and burned them as she worked. She did not speak, and Imladris was grateful. She did not know what she could say. She wound her sister’s remains in her cloak, as best she could. Halla’den had been taller than her. Mihris saw her sitting hopeless with the body, its ravaged feet exposed to the night air, and unclipped her own cloak. Blearily Imladris looked up, and what felt like an eternity passed until she recollected herself and gently laid the body down and took the cloak and rewrapped her sister, properly this time. Up the road Telana was waiting with an aravel. The two mages carefully maneuvered through the battlefield, leaving the apostates smoldering in the fire Mihris built. Telana came forward and helped them place the body down. She did not remark on Imladris’ tear-streaked face, but handed her a waterskin, to clean the blood off her hands. 

The halla pulled them through the quiet pre-dawn mist. They passed through the King’s Road,

through the Inquisition camps, and Imladris mechanically saluted each officer as they came out to greet her sleepily, wondering, at the Dalish entourage. A few birds hesitated and began to chirp. Spring was coming, she could see it in the crocuses littering the roads, the occasional sprig of crystal grace left untouched as a blessing. She reached out and touched it as they passed. Telana looked at her but said nothing. Mihris was stony-faced. By the time dawn broke they were at Clan Alerion’s Hold, gawked at by every scout and traveller on the road. The Keeper and his First had already built the pyre for them, before the Temple, in the center of their town. Imladris realized some of what he had said was a double-bluff. Exhausted, she passed a hand over her aching eyes.

Telana hesitated, then said, “Thank you, First Lavellan. First Virnehn. For ending that one’s pain. For what you’ve done for the People, and the people here.” She looked at Mihris. “You’ve shown that you can’t be tempted, lethallin. I think the Keeper will let you stay.”

Mihris said sadly, “As long as I leave Clan Virnehn on this pyre, and become Clan Alerion. I see.”

Imladris unharnessed the halla. Mihris helped her carry the body to the pyre. Alerion gathered around them, and Atishan crossed two ash staffs over the corpse and laid a crown of laurel at its head. “For she endured much, to get here,” he told Imladris, “and we honor our People who fight.” He turned to the clan and announced, “We have one of our lost kin, returned to the People at all. Her sister, honored First Lavellan, will speak of whom she had been and what she endured.”

Imladris cleared her throat and stepped forward. “Halla’den, daughter of Ashalla and Baranduin of Clan Lavellan, was taken by the templars at the age of six. My mother brought us to trade in the Wycombe market, and my elder sister took us wandering. We stopped at a flower stall and my sister was entranced by a pot of crystal grace. The shopkeeper told us that mages in the Circles could make them chime, and she was too young to know never to do magic,” she faltered, closed her eyes, continued, “she wanted to try, and she tried and it worked, and we were delighted until the shopkeeper saw what she was doing and screamed. The templars came. My mother could not protest. She was taken to Kirkwall Circle, where she was known for taking care of our People trapped there. When Fiona broke the Chantry’s chains, rather than returning to Wycombe to find her People, Halla’den decided to fight for all mages. When the fight seemed hopeless, she broke off, and when the Breach wrent the Veil apart, she lost her battle with her Fear.” Imladris lifted her head and fixed the crowd with her gaze, looking each and every one of them in the eye. “But we took up her cause, and won her body back.  _ We beat Fear back _ , and sent it wailing back to the Fade. For my sister, for the mages, and for the People.” She stepped back, and Atishan handed her a lit torch. “Dareth shiral,” she murmured, and let the pyre burn.


	6. The Slough of Despond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imladris (metaphorically) drags her sister's corpse with her, through the Fallow Mire and the Storm Coast. Her companions bear the brunt of her emotional exhaustion.

Mirwen warmed her hands around the flame Imladris held cradled in her hands and smiled. Carefully the child cupped her hands over it and scooped it outright. “Now pinch it,” Imladris instructed, “and pull it long. Like a candle.” Mirwen looked worried. “Da’len, it won’t burn. It’s friendly. My mana will always keep you warm.”

“Mamae,” she said. “Uncle Revas cries when he sleeps. But Mamaela makes sure his dreams don’t touch mine. But they hide. I can see them. They’re sneaky. They hide in her shadow sometimes. They’re very hungry.” The ember in her hands guttered, and she frowned.

Imladris, worried, reached for her. “Da’vhenan, what do you mean?” Mirwen shook the flame out of her hands and put her head on Imladris’ shoulder. She was still small enough to pick up, just about, and Imladris picked her up as she wrapped her arms around her neck. “I’ve missed you, little one.” She caressed her hair, dark and fine like her father’s. Mirwen was quiet. “What are you thinking about?”

“There’s too many eyes in the swamp,” Mirwen said. “They’re coming closer.” Imladris made to turn around.

“Wake up.”

Imladris shot up straight, summoning a small flame to light the tent. Outside the rain lashed and the wind howled, and the Veilfire torch at the beacons hissed and whispered and sang to themselves. Solas was sitting up in his bedroll, looking concerned. His hand was up, gloved with that strange spiral anchor.

“Your daughter found you in the Fade,” he whispered. “But a Dreamer attracts spirits, and we are not in a place where one as young as she can play, safely. I thought it best to wake both of you, before the scene changed. I hope I did not intrude. Your dream was...loud.” Solas looked amused for a second. “I kept catching the two of you at the edges of mine.”

Imladris let the little candle stay suspended between them and flexed her hands. Blackwall snored, Sera tossed in her sleep, and Varric and Cassandra slept soundly back to back. Vivienne, though, was too still. She was listening to them. “You can see into our dreams.”

Solas looked uncomfortable. “No. Not intentionally. But the Veil is thin here, and I could feel it warping in the Fade at the presence of another Dreamer. The Fade tries to...reconcile what Dreamers see. I could not help but notice your daughter’s presence. And your mark, whatever it may be, shines on both sides of the Veil.”

“I’m sorry. I know you value your privacy,” Imladris said pointedly.

“And I know you value yours,” he replied. “If your Dreamer comes seeking you, I will try to keep the Fade as...child-safe as possible.”

“Is that possible?” Imladris tiredly rubbed her eyes. “Does that mean she can walk into my dreams? I don’t really have good dreams. But--”

He hesitated, eyes flitting towards Vivienne. “When she reaches for you, when we are...stuck in close quarters,” he said carefully, “my experience of the Fade warps. I can guard the edges, if you like. With my back turned.”

Imladris was silent. She never knew quite what to make of him, the Inquisition’s Fade expert, who knew so much and said so little about himself, but flourished at questions and argued readily with the other agents. He did not have any of the anxiety or terror or rage of most of the apostates she met, nor the stolidness of the Dalish. She trusted him to watch her back, to sleep next to her in the tent. She didn’t know enough about him to let him anywhere near her dreams, let alone her daughter. “I don’t want her hurt,” she said. Her dreams hurt enough. Halla’den walked at the edges of her dreams, eyes in her hand. Imladris could not remember what color they had been. She did not want her daughter to learn for her.

Solas looked away. “If you keep both of you focused on the flame, it should be fine. That’s all she wants, it seems. She’s been shaping your dreams, not the other way around.” He was amused. “Strong-willed like her mother, I assume.” Her indomitable focus, as he called it, so easily mastered by a five-year-old wanting her mother’s attention and wanting it _now_. “And if you require aid--not all that comes crawling through the Fade is hungry. And with proper supervision and training, your daughter will learn to judge for herself.” He glanced back over to where Vivienne was pretending to sleep and made a face at Imladris. Imladris rolled her eyes.

“Have you ever had children, Solas?” she asked, suddenly curious. How old was he, anyway? “You sound like you know what you are doing.”

His face shuttered. “No,” he said. “I suggest we both get some sleep. The morning’s journey to Hargave Keep will not be easy.” He pinched the flame out and rolled over, back to her. Imladris traced the curve of his spine with her eyes for a second, and saw him tense, drag the blanket up, he wrapped his arms around himself, and she almost whispered that she was sorry. Instead, she turned away, and when she entered the Fade, there was no one there, not even her sister.

The Fallow Mire was fetid, and the Inquisition’s mood was foul. Vivienne sniped at Solas, Sera, and Blackwall. Blackwall and Solas tag-teamed baiting Vivienne. Cassandra kept threatening to torture Varric. Sera hyper-fixated on Solas, who had woken up tense and distracted, and tormented him until he snapped at her in Elvhen. Imladris snapped at Solas for snapping at Sera, and then snarled at Vivienne for trying to pile in. Only Varric kept amicable, and only because he kept up a steady monologue of complaints, refusing to answer any of them.

Finally, Imladris put on her Keeper voice, and stopped them all at the last beacon before Hargave Keeper. “You will all _pull together_ ,” she snapped, holding the Veilfire torch. “The corpses are about to swarm us. We are within sight of the Keep. I’d like to face probable death with _some_ group cohesion, if you please. We are _so close_ to completing our mission. Our scouts are relying on us to rescue them, and if you all don’t stop _bickering_ , we’re condemning them to a long. Slow. Wasting. Death in this godsforsaken _bog_.”

“I quite agree,” Vivienne said smoothly. She stared at Sera, who stuck her tongue out and raised two fingers. “The professionalism of our companions has been quite lacking. And the _hygiene_.”

Blackwall said, “For fuck’s sake--”

“Just light the beacon,” Varric said repressively. “Make them stop.”

Then the corpses swarmed them, and for once, they were all too focused on not dying to snarl at each other.

They picked their way through the perpetual night, sticking close together. Sera jumped as lightning suddenly struck a mangrove, sticking closer to Blackwall. Carts sunk in the mud. Imladris could see more corpses, floating in the water, and a few rotting men playing with bow and arrow. The Keep loomed up ahead. She wiped the splatter of mauled flesh off her gauntlets onto her mail coat.

“We’ll have to take it head on,” she frowned. “We’ll summon the dead, going around in the water. And we don’t have the tools or the troops to scale the wall.”

“It’s a small force,” Cassandra said. “We can take them.”

Solas was staring at the water mournfully, almost angrily. “Few things last long here,” he said, watching the play of light on the corpses shining in the mud. “Mud and water bury forever what they cannot erode.”

“Thank you for that,” Imladris told him. “Truly relevant, as we prepare to take the keep. I’m glad you’ve contributed to our discussion of tactics.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Imladris turned away. “Cassandra and I will lead from the front. They want me, after all. As always.” She flexed the hand with the mark. It was growing stiff again. “Varric, Vivienne, if you can lay cover fire while we charge--Sera, I want you to focus on taking out their archers. Blackwall, Solas--focus on guarding us from behind. I’d like to get this over with as quickly as possible--overwhelm them and get our soldiers out as quickly as possible.” She eyed the Keep, looming over them in the gloom. The Veilfire continued to hiss. This was a terrible idea, and she hoped it worked.

Luckily, it did--she and Cassandra charged, Sera and Solas took down archers, Blackwall cut down anyone who got near them, and Vivienne and Varric kept them safe as they slaughtered their way through the fort. They moved in brutal efficiency, and when they were done, she directed Sera and Blackwall to gather the bodies and burn them in the courtyard while she freed the scouts. “We will give them the honor of a final end,” she said. “And I do not want to fight them twice. It’s a waste.” Her soldiers fell at her feet and praised the Maker and Andraste and her herald, devout as most of the Inquisition recruits, and she escorted them to the nearest camp. None of them had been tortured, the Avvar had spared them that. The Avvar shaman, Amund, joined them and offered his services. Imladris thought, why the fuck not, and accepted. Vivienne narrowed her eyes in displeasure, and lashed out as soon as they settled down for dinner.

“My dear,” she oiled around her, sitting primly on a crate. “You do realize that Avvar of yours is an abomination? He calls himself a shaman. That means he is _possessed_ , darling, and a danger to us all. Surely the Dalish recognize the _peril_ of dining with demons?” She smiled.

She really did not want to talk about abominations. Imladris, irritated, looked up from her stew. “Madame de Fer,” she said. “The Avvar release their spirit-guides at the same age a Circle mage goes through their Harrowing and a Dalish mage chooses their vallaslin. And you humans age so much _quicker_ than my people. He may not be equal to your age and experience, but he is certainly no longer a child.” Outside, the wind howled, and thunder cracked.

Vivienne, to her credit, did not blink, but smiled slowly. “And the Dalish are known for dealing with abominations, of course.”

Anger coursed through her. Imladris put her bowl down. “Would you care to clarify what you mean by that?” she said pleasantly. “We’re quite good at taking care of our own, yes.”

“Really,” Vivienne scoffed. “Is that what you think of what happened to Clan Virnehn? Your Dalish clans in the Hinterlands have suspiciously unwilling to deal with the abominations amongst the rebel mages. If your people could take care of their own, then the Orlesian Chantry would not have had to intervene and corral the plague of despair demons that took _three_ Dalish clans, before the civil war.” Imladris snarled, “Is that what you call slaughter? ‘Corraling?’ As if we’re _beasts_? Murdering the best of three clans? Because you fear our magic? My people were mapping the Fade when you shemlem were still hanging anyone who could make sparks--you’re still doing that, of course--”

“Oh?” Vivienne said. “And where did that get you? Mapping the Fade? Where did the Elvhen’s vaunted magical prowess bring them? Where is your empire? Ruins, darling, ruins. That is what magic has brought your people to. And I would _prefer_ ,” she tossed her head archly, “not to see you lead such worthies as Seeker Cassandra and myself into them.”

Cassandra snapped, “I am quite comfortable where the Herald has led us.” Lightning suddenly hissed and set a tree aflame, four feet from where they were sitting. Vivienne raised a single impeccable eyebrow and Imladris’ lips thinned in displeasure. “We have had our...disagreements,” her eyes darted to Imladris and cut away again, “but I have faith in Andraste’s plan. And I would prefer you not to put words in my mouth. I can and will and have voiced my complaints when I deem necessary.”

“And she has,” Varric chimed in. “In spades. Constantly.”

“As if you’re any better, dwarf,” Cassandra growled back.

“I prefer to think of it more as a stream of running commentary than complaining, actually.”

Solas cleared his throat. “Have we established the rota for tonight’s watch?” he asked. “It is growing late, and I am certain Scout Harding would like to be relieved soon.”

“Ah yes,” Imladris said blandly. “Vivienne, would you mind? I daresay you can use the time to keep an eye on Amund for us, and report back.” The two women smiled at each other, and Vivienne went.

“Well,” Blackwall said. “That was awkward. Anyone up for a game of Wicked Grace?”

The wind howled outside. Vivienne soon came back in, having ordered a group of scouts to take over their watch rota. Imladris did not have it in her to fight. She only remarked, “I am sorry the battle at Hargave Keep exhausted you so much, Madame. I’ll be sure to give you time to recuperate at Haven.” They each retreated into their own corners of the tent. Blackwall, Sera, and Varric played cards and drank. Solas napped, curled up like a cat on top of his bedroll. Vivienne took out an extravagantly bejeweled tome and read. Cassandra cleaned her armor. Imladris grabbed her pack and shuffled through it, looking for the book Manon, her mother-in-law, had sent her from Val Royeaux. It was a plain paperbound book of poems, published by a writer for _Fen’Harel’s Teeth_ , her friend Maurice, one of the few to survive the rebellion in Halamshiral. She opened to the dedication page and smiled sadly: “Another will smash the prison register. Another will smash the doors of the jail. Another will wipe from our thin shoulders/The dust and blood fallen from our necks.” Peguy, complicated figure, he converted to Andrastianism before Celene had him killed.

“What are you reading?” Cassandra asked, shaking out the bloody rag. She put her breastplate down and craned her head to look at the cover. Imladris held it up: _Fire in the Empire_. “What is it about?”

“It’s a book of poems,” Imladris said. “Written by an old friend.”

“Oh. What kind of poems? Love poems? I didn’t know the elves wrote poetry.”

Imladris laughed. “I thought we were notorious for it. Endless epics and songs. Stories about the gods. Stories about the Long Walk, the Dirthaveren, the Scattering. About Alidda, the Emerald Knights. We have plenty of poetry. The dwarves didn’t invent the printing press.”

Solas opened his eyes and sat up. “Elvhen poetry?”

“All contemporary,” she told him, and rolled her eyes when his face fell. “But my friend is quite good.

He writes mostly in Common, unfortunately, and in a very loose meter, but I’ve been reading his stuff for years.” Solas looked disinterested, and settled back to sleep. She shook her head at him.

“I’d like to hear one,” Cassandra said. “If you don’t mind reading one. What are these about?” The eventual Elvhen uprising and our longing for our homeland, Imladris did not say: how much we hate Andraste and her priests. Odes to the dead of the Dirthavaren, the elvhen neighborhood of Halamshiral. Words of hope, to our comrades in the struggle. The promise of freedom.

“Love,” Imladris said instead. “Love for our friends who are dead.” She turned to a random page and began to read:

I was ashamed when I saw your face:  
age had not erased the promise we made,  
it was scored into your skin. Braver than  
me, you said, “This world has already changed,  
can’t you feel it? We cannot mourn  
the unburied dead, nor drag around  
their mangled corpses, I am not  
weighed down by what we lost, but  
what we have to gain. I am not afraid.”  
  
But, lethallin, I am. The dead rise up  
in the Dirthavaren to demand  
Reckoning, Mythal’s vengeance turns  
and I did not ask to be branded  
with this promise, the end of an age.  
The gods of our hope do not believe in us,  
but lethallin, I believe in you. Sun,  
brand this promise bright across the sky:  
another will smash the prison rolls.  
Another will smash the dungeon door.  
Another will smash the scaffolding,  
and dust the blood from our necks.  
These are the words I write,  
spilled onto a dungeon floor,  
the promise you and I bore.

I’ll weave them into a necklace  
of sun and seafoam, light enough to bruise.  
The world has already changed,  
and I am not afraid to feel it.

She closed her eyes. “It’s dedicated to the dead of Halamshiral.” She closed the book and handed it to Cassandra. “Let me know if you find a love poem. Perhaps I will take a watch after all.” She left the tent, and sent the scout back. Under a canopy, she wrapped her cloak around her and grieved in the eerie rain, for all those who had come before, for all those she had lost, and for all she was risking on the gamble of a better world.

* * *

Go and sing to the mountain,  
from the depths of the earth,  
from the river to the sea,  
that the people will be free.  
Go and sing to the monarchs,  
high in their towers of glittering gold,  
that fire is kindled in the empire,  
the promise that was lost  
will never be forgotten.  
Go and sing to the people,  
wretched in the walls,  
that this cannot continue,  
the world cannot be wrought  
past and present alike  
in the ashes of the old  
we kindle the world of the new.  
Go and sing to the gods  
that we will seize what they cannot  
that glory is not ruin or gold  
but freedom’s clear ring,  
from the mountain to the sea,  
the people will be free  
the people have always been free.

There was a more elegant elegy to Mahanon, as well:

The dead come sit at my table,  
lean against the window, a careless smile:  
“I’m leaving for love, and the revolution,  
aren’t I lucky they’re the same?”  
He journeyed to a more hopeful place,  
the name he took was true.  
He left behind two daughters,  
the wife who loved him,  
some songs: she told me  
they left her his gitar.  
So I hold this as testimonial:  
a picture of lounging light and shadow,  
extravagant in his gaze, and upraised  
a gitar, snatched from prison’s gate.  
The chord resounds: love and  
the revolution, he sang them the same.

There was even a love poem:

Take these words and hold them  
like a pike against a mounted knight:  
I love you for eternity.  
Take these words like a kiss  
and wear them like a helmet  
against a pommel strike. I love your magnanimity.  
Great soul, you stride through city  
and wood and field with your head  
high, and leave me only with the dream  
of you between the fights,  
singing with the partisans.  
  
May these words be your arms and armor;  
may my love guard against an unchanging world.  
May we see each other in the cleanness of the dawn  
on the beach where first I learned your name.  
If no one will sing for us, I will sing.

* * *

She woke up to the cold and the thunder and the mud, and felt like she had been weeping all through the night. The tent was already empty. The others had left her to sleep in. Imladris rubbed her face and tried to breathe through the grief. She wanted her brother. She wanted out of this Fallow Mire.

She left the tent and saw the Inquisition huddled around the fire, under the canopy, a sorry sight. Vivienne’s glorious lily battlesuit was covered in mud. Blackwall was speaking, “Now, not the worst battlefield I’ve ever seen, but even darkspawn smells better than this place. Now, what I’d hate to see is the trenches again, especially in rain like this. What’ll kill you, the Fereldan bolter or the Orlesian chevalier, or just the mud?”

Imladris sat next to him. “Cheery conversation,” she remarked. “You fought in Orlais?”

“I fought in everything,” Blackwall snorted. “Had to make a living. Before the Blight.”

The Requisition officer came over with a list of supplies and a letter from Josephine, and Imladris scanned them quickly as Solas set a bowl of gruel next to her. She waved an absent hand at him in thanks, frowning at Josephine’s request. “Josephine’s having some issue with the Orlesian marquis who claims he owns Haven, through his wife’s holdings.”

“The Marquis DuRellion?” Vivienne said. “Oh darling, his bark is worse than his bite.”

“He urges that we host a...‘mourning fete’ for the memory of Divine Justinia. To unite the nobility on both sides of the Frostbacks in their grief for her, and to honor the work she set in motion.” Imladris folded the letter and slipped it into her pocket. “Not a bad idea. Josephine wants us back as soon as possible. But I want to deal with that apostate before we send refugees back--the bandits and the rifts might be gone, but I’d rather not feed the blood mage.”

Vivienne paused. “My dear, surely you don’t need all of us to assist in your hunt? The Dalish _are_ known for that, aren’t that? Surely you can spare us, for Lady Montilyet’s sake.”

“You’re very eloquent for a Circle mage,” Imladris said blandly, smashing down the rage into the mud. “I suppose the Duke de Ghislain trained your tongue well. I’m so glad you’re willing to put it to good use. Why don’t you take Varric and Cassandra with you? As they are the ranking nobility here. You no longer hold your title with the Imperial Court? And all Circle titles are, so to speak, defunct.” She waved over the requisitions officer. “Madame de Fer, Seeker Pentaghast, and Deshyr Tethras will be leaving for Haven shortly. Arrange for whomever is up for leave to escort them back.”

“Yes, ser!” The requisition officer saluted sharply and hurried off, calling the names of relieved-looking scouts.

Varric put his bowl aside. “Best get packing, then.” He hauled himself up and offered Cassandra a hand. She snorted and waved him away.

Vivienne only said, “I am glad you’ve had the sense to defer to my taste, darling. The Inquisition should show a more elegant face. Though I’m certain your... _rustic_ look has charm. Where it belongs. In the woods, perhaps. Or the mire--your homeland is in a bog, isn’t it?” She smiled again and glided away.

As soon as Vivienne was out of earshot, Blackwall said, “When we’re back in Haven, let me buy you a drink. Please. Or something. For that. Because that was _glorious_.”

“Cor, make it two,” Sera said. “I’ll drink to that. Did you see her face? I thought she was going to spit on you.”

Solas sighed and watched after them. “You will regret that,” he said. “That was unnecessarily cruel.”

“Rather than what you tell her, which is necessary?” Imladris got up. “Fascinating distinction. I’m so glad you hold me to such high standards. We need to get moving. I’m not going to have that abomination tear up anymore of this bog.”

* * *

Apropos of nothing, Sera announced to the clearing, “I once saw the Empress’s ass.” Imladris nearly dropped Widris’ feet in surprise, leaving Solas holding the body. They were moving her back to her hut, planning on burning her with her sacrifices.

Blackwall paused for a second, then slammed his axe back down, chopping up wood for the pyre. “Congratulations!”

“Well,” she said consideringly, “I didn’t. I drew it and someone said it was a good likeness. That’s a story about trust.” Imladris hefted the dead woman’s feet and quashed the hysteria rising up her throat. They maneuvered the body into the hut. She closed the corpse’s eyes, and placed the staff in its cold grasp. Blackwall came in with dry kindling and they packed it around the body. When the work was done, they exited, and went a careful distance away. Imladris set Widdris’ journal aflame, and threw it into the hut. Solas cast a quick flame spell, to encourage the kindling. They watched the hut burn, to make sure the corpses wouldn’t rise again.

“Such a waste,” Imladris mourned. “A mind like that...if she’d had someone, a mentor, to turn to, before the demons grasped her mind…” The roof of the hut crackled and fell as the flames licked up the walls. They took a step back. She wrapped both hands around her staff.

“People turn off the path,” Solas said, “regardless of how you illuminate it. The jealous urge to be the _first_ , and _only_ leads many astray. But you cannot conquer the Fade.” He sighed. “You cannot hoard being, and memory, and perception. You cannot stifle pure Will.” He shifted slightly, looked down at Imladris. Almost gently, he added, “There is nothing we can do, for those already set on the path of their own destruction. Except bury them.”

“Dunno why you care so much ‘bout dead mages,” Sera said. “Dead people are dead. Until they’re not. Why not just dump her in the bog?”

“Because she deserves better,” Imladris snapped. “Because sometimes the only decent thing that happens to a person is that they’re laid to rest rather than left on the side of the road. Because I hope when I’m killed they won’t leave me to rot.”

Blackwall said contemplatively, “And the dead don’t really stay dead around here, do they. Is it just because the Veil is thin? Or because of the Breach?”

Solas said shortly, “This place was a site of a great battle in ancient times, long before men reached these lands, when Elvhenan stretched from the Tirashan to the Amaranthine Sea. Where the elvhen warred amongst themselves, for the conceit of mage-kings long forgotten. The elemental brutality of those mage-warriors was so sunk into the earth that the earth itself revolted--what was once a marshland became simple muck.This is not the first time the dead have risen to reclaim it, and even after this Breach is healed, I doubt it will be the last. The blood-glutted earth grieves the fallen.” He paused. “Especially if you do not lay the dead to rest. Spirits will continue to steal into their bodies to replay these battles long-forgotten.”

“Wonderful,” Blackwall said. “I never get tired of corpses. The scrappiness of them, oh no, they have to jump up and complain about their burial!”

“ _Urgh_ ,” Sera complained. “Can’t we go now?”

“No, Sera, I just want to stand here in the mud and the rain and watch that house burn and enjoy the soggy ambiance,” Imladris said. “And maybe I’ll be so lucky and I’ll catch a cold, and you can leave me here to die and brave Lady Vivienne’s party by yourself. Just chop my arm off and toss it at the sky, put in enough desperate mages and angry templars and I’m sure the Breach will heal.”

Everyone was silent.

“Are you alright?” Blackwall said finally.

Imladris sighed. “Forget I said anything. I’m fine. I just want to get out of the mud.”

“We will want to launder our clothes later,” Solas said helpfully. “Or burn them.”

“Or not!” Sera said eagerly. “And then we can be the Mudquisition!” She shoved Blackwall and bounded towards the road, splashing through the marshes, avoiding the desiccated bog bodies with cheer. Imladris picked her way more gingerly; the corpses kept responding to her mark, almost hungrily. She was exhausted. She wanted a good fire and a bath and a private room with a door that had a lock, and maybe a tray of baked apples and a lute or at least a good book, the poetry her friend had wrote. She marched her companions back to camp, to good news: Josephine had convinced a Ferelden noble to offer them the use of her summer home, a day’s journey from the Fallow Mire, where fresh horses awaited to take them back to Haven. Imladris considered walking through the night to get there, but Solas had already curled up in a corner of the tent and fallen asleep, and he always looked so distraught whenever anyone woke him, she didn’t want to deal with more--with anything, anyone--and ended up unrolling her bedroll not long after him. Outside the tent, under the canopy, Sera and Blackwall laughed and teased each other, drinking themselves warm, but Imladris could not. She conjured a small light and opened her book of poems, looking for soothe the niggling memory of Halla’den:

We lay our dead to rest  
with as little pomp and  
circumstance, because  
there are so many of them.  
Mother and sister and cousin,  
teacher and leader and lover:  
every night would smell like burning,  
if we did not lay our dead to rest  
in the fertile earth, with a blanket  
of mother-stone, a staff in hand  
to pace one’s way through the Fade,  
the Beyond, across the sea  
of every possibility. My friend,  
I hope death is a great ocean;  
I’ll sail it one day, and see you  
Moored on the other side.

She sighed and closed the book. She stared up at the ceiling, the Lavellan siblings all looked alike, that was what everyone said. Wherever they went, everyone could see their parents in them. Ashara hated it, before the Grey Wardens took her, said it made her feel like just another elf, another one of the Dalish, when she was _her_ , not Imladris or Ashalla, who, truth be told, wasn’t aging well, the only people who told her mother she could be her own daughters’ sister were trying to cheat her out of her halla-carving. Revas enjoyed it, of course, and liked it even more when they brought him back from Tevinter and everyone could see that he was her brother, without having to ask. Halla’den didn’t know, she was so young when she was taken from them, her mother hadn’t resisted much, just glared stony-faced because she had two other magelings clutching at her skirts, better to stay calm than lose them all, and besides shemlem didn’t deserve tears, she would never have let any of them give them the satisfaction of breaking down. Did Halla’den think they had abandoned her? Is that why she didn’t come back? Plenty of mages of Kirkwall escaped to Wycombe, the Champion of Kirkwall’s own sister went into hiding there, the First Enchanter too, though Varric told everybody he was dead, for his own good. They had been helping the mage underground for years, Deshanna had practically invented it, when she broke out of Ostwick’s Circle. Perhaps she did not think she would be welcome, perhaps she wanted to fight, but she had cared about the people, that was what that elf said, Lysas or Lydas or something, he said she cared for them as best she could, Dalish didn’t do well there, so why didn’t she try--

“Are you alright?” A quiet question, Solas sitting up again, regarding her, solemn. “Your breathing is agitated.” Imladris blinked, considered it: no. No she was not.

She pushed herself up. “I’ve had worse nights.”

He peered at her intently, and she refused to drop her gaze. He looked beyond her, past her eyes, narrowed. “Something happened to you,” he said, “in the Hinterlands. When you went to meet the Dalish. And your spirit has been struggling to compensate.” He paused. “I do not wish to intrude, but--the world will not end, if we take an extra day at the villa.”

Imladris laughed, short and bitter. “Except it might.” She rolled her shoulder; the mark was aching again, like a pinched nerve. She could not remember the last time she was not in pain. “If it weren’t raining, and if this place weren’t an undead-infested bog, I’d go on a walk to try and calm down.”

“Well,” Solas said. “There is always the Fade. You can Dream yourself somewhere better. That you can put down your burden, that your journey is already done.”

“I cannot imagine anything except this bog right now,” Imladris said very, very seriously, eyes wide in mock-horror. “The damp has seeped into my dreams. It’s forever reshaped my consciousness. Wherever I go, I’ll be dragging the Fallow Mire and its stinking misery with me.”

Solas laughed. “Time will temper the stench. If we’re lucky. I was not joking about burning our clothes.”

Imladris made a face. “If you could be anywhere right now, where would you be?” “The Fade,” Solas answered promptly, and Imladris grinned at him, amused. He looked at her, pleased and a little sheepish.

“I appreciate your consistency, Solas,” she told him. “And your honesty. I do not think I can get away with telling people I’d rather take a nap than...do anything with as much grace as you do.”

Solas shook his head. “You’ve borne the burden of the Inquisition’s expectations more gracefully than anyone could expect,,” he countered, “removed from your family and your homeland. And I must confess a certain enjoyment to watching you move in battle.”

Imladris felt the air between them still. “Are you suggesting that I’m graceful?” she asked archly. If he moved closer, if he moved closer she would close the gap, if he would just move closer.

“No, I am declaring it. It was not a subject for debate.”

Surprised, she laughed a little, but did not dare move. They paused, he looked at her, and Imladris gazed back steadily, knowing too well what he saw: the gouges across her face. He had a few himself, of course, what looked like an arrow mark above his right eye, more faded claw marks along the right side of his nose. She hoped he didn’t get them the same way she did. She smiled slightly. He reminded her of a mural she had seen a reproduction of, of an ancient Elvhen warrior guarding the path to the Emerald Graves, preserved from Arlathan to the Exalted March by devoted craftsmen. He had that same intensity, and, under that lambswool tunic, a similar physique. She opened her mouth to tell him so, but Blackwall stumbled in, reeking of stale whisky.

“‘Scuse me, gotta get in my bedroll before Sera pisses in it,” he said agreeably. “She’d do it, you know. She said.”

Solas asked meditatively, “What’s preventing her from relieving herself whilst you’re in it? Do I want to know?”

Blackwall threw off his tunic. Imladris wrinkled her nose; it stunk. She edged closer to Solas, who was already casting a spell to sweeten the air. “I think it’s a sex thing,” Blackwall said. “Didn’t want to press.” He threw himself down. “Night, everyone, mind cutting out the light?”

Imladris pinched the flame out and curled up in her bedroll.

* * *

Clean ocean air, soothing raw skin, and an ever-present salt mist: Imladris tilted her head up and closed her eyes. She liked these humid rains. Varric paused as they reached the beach. “The Waking Sea. Somewhere across all that water is Kirkwall.”

“And Wycombe,” Imladris said. She breathed in the humid air. “The rivers of the Friendly Homes. Baranduin, Anduin, and the Ithilien.” She sighed heavily. They would be bringing in the first of the harvest, and preparing for the Duke of Wycombe’s tax-raids. Deshanna would be able to handle it without her, of course, but still, she wanted to be there. The wind carried shouting, the clash of steel against steel, and she turned. “There, I think that’s them. The Qunari mercenary.” She smiled grimly at Varric. “Ready?”

Varric hoisted Bianca and aimed the trigger. “As I’ll ever be.” She cast a quick barrier; Blackwall grinned and charged down the hill, yelling the whole while, and she called down lightning to cover him as Sera shot arrows so fast the bowstring was singing. Imladris laughed. She took a sterner approach with the mercenaries themselves--odd to see a Dalish in a Qunari’s employ, it was at odds with their entire “we shall never submit” philosophy--and was pleased to see her glare knocked even the Iron Bull a step back. The Soul Canto was beautiful, she had a copy of it on her nightstand back at home, but the Qun itself was disgusting. She agreed that nature tended to indicate how to move, Deshanna had always told her to be like water wearing down stone, or like fire burning for new growth, the Dalish excelled at nature metaphors. But being unresisting? Submitting to indifference? That rankled. She hated the Chantry, but the Qun--and its treatment of mages--was despicable.

But the salt air was fresh on her face and the adrenaline of scrambling up cliffs so close to the sea had her feeling elated. Thunder crackled and roared, and a bright blue flash of lightning had them all jumping back, and Imladris was glad for the rain because she could already feel her hair frizzling.

“Look at that!” she yelled over the rain. “The giant! It’s fighting a dragon!” Sera ran up to her and clutched her arm.

“We can watch, yeah?” Sera shouted back. Imladris laughed and pulled her closer as the dragon screamed in pure ecstasy of being, and the giant slammed at it with its fists, shaking the ground, and how wonderful it was to see something so much more impossible than them all, the air was crackling with its fury. She and Sera drew closer, and Varric warily commented, “Hey, let’s not get eaten today, okay?” Imladris waved him back, drawn to the roar.

“I want to be a dragon,” she laughed, and she threw her arms open as it tore into the giant. “Look at that!”

“Well, there’s a witch I met at the Sundermount who can help with that,” Varric said. “Maybe you’ll have more luck that Hawke.”

Imladris grabbed Sera as the dragon ripped an arm right off the giant and tossed it. It screeched and gouged through its chest, and, bloody, threw itself into the air. The gust of its wings threw them all back.

“Fenhedis!” she exclaimed.

“We’re gonna fight that someday, right?” Sera asked. “We have to, lady elfybits. We _have_ to.”

“Yes,” Imladris said. “Oh yes. Not today. But Mythal’enansal--you know, the Dalish have stories that we were dragons once.” She stretched again, imaging her arms stretching to leathery wingtips, beating back the breeze. She liked being a hawk, it felt right. How much lyrium would she have to hoard to turn into a dragon? But it would be better put to use blowing up a Chantry, than letting her play. She sighed, and turned back to her companions. Sera was still staring wistfully at the direction the dragon went. Blackwall was smiling a bit at them. Varric, though, just looked displeased.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

“I’m soggy,” he answered. “And I hate Qunari. The sooner we follow up on the Warden lead, the better. And maybe next time we can get Josephine to send you to a city. With sun. Like Val Royeaux, or something.”

“I thought you didn’t like Orlesian cafes.”

“I don’t. Especially after Solas dragged me to every other bakery while you were with your family. He had fun. I didn’t. Well, the few were fun. Dude has a sense of self-parody, under all that _pride_. But after the fourth bakery it got a little old.”

Imladris contemplated the image of Solas pretending to be Varric’s manservant, and forcing Varric to play the haughty dwarven noble as he hammed it up. Then a giant spider dropped on her, and she screamed, and Varric nearly shot her with his crowbow, and she nearly shocked him with lightning in the mad dash to get that fucking thing off.

* * *

“We must’ve just missed them,” Imladris frowned over the diary pages. “The writer’s Dalish. A woman. I wonder if she knew my sister. Writes like her.”

Blackwall paused. He and Varric exchanged a glance. “Older or younger?” he asked casually. “When did she join?”

Past tense. Imladris had not heard from Ashara since the Blight. “Older. I had two. The other was younger” Her heart was too heavy for her chest, and absentmindedly she placed her fist against her heart: still beating. “Ashara was conscripted--” her son Samahl was now eighteen, he was just beginning to walk when Ashara was caught, “it must have been almost seventeen years ago now. I haven’t heard from her since the Blight. They discourage communication with families, anyway. And if she wasn’t killed at Ostagar the Calling has taken her by now.” Imladris folded the pages, creased the edge sharply, and stuck it in the spellbook hanging from her waist. “Although it would be my luck, to just miss seeing the only sister I have left.” She smiled wryly. “My younger one was at Redcliffe, died just before we made it to the village. One of the mages recognized the resemblance.” She wanted, suddenly, sorely, to talk, to tell them all, these near-strangers, what she had lost. It was easier than telling the ones who actually knew her--but here, no one knew her, not really, and they couldn’t, she was just a dirty apostate terrorist from the Free Marches, and the less anyone knew, the safer it was. She got up and brushed the dirt from her robes. “Sometimes I feel that life is one little tragedy after another--missing the sisters who have long since forgotten me. Excuse me. I’m still dragging the Fallow Mire with me.” She patted her hair, as if to check that the bun was still there. “We should move on. If we hurry, we might be able to catch up with them.”

They scaled the cliffs, Sera scampering up front, Blackwall trudging behind her. Varric quickened his pace to catch up to Imladris. “You okay?” he asked. “I know none of this has been easy. Cassandra said you had family business in the Hinterlands, I didn’t know you’d found your sister.”

Imladris used her staff to pick a path up the rocky slope, testing for loose gravel. “I didn’t. I found her corpse. The Breach had broken her mind, and a Fear demon--” Up ahead, Blackwall missed his footing and slipped, and Imladris hurriedly cast a barrier over him as Sera grabbed his hand. He pulled himself upright. Assured that he was unharmed, Imladris relaxed. “Mihris of Clan Virnehn needed someone to speak to Alerion, I needed a First to help me lay my sister to rest. It worked out, as much as it ever does.”

Varric gave up on trying to climb while upright and began to slowly maneuver on his hands and knees. Imladris leveraged herself up with her staff and offered him a hand. He grasped it firmly, and she pulled him up. They sat down in the wet grass for a second, to catch their breath. Sera and Blackwall were laughing about beards up ahead. She gripped the sticky tendrils, dug harder to feel the earth, and raked her hands back.

“I’m sorry,” Varric said. He wasn’t looking at her, but at the dwarven statue looming in the distance, the sea beyond it, Kirkwall even further. “That must’ve not been easy.”

“It was easier than sealing a rift,” Imladris said shortly. “It was easier than talking sweetly to a Chantry mother and playing nice with Vivienne. I am a Dalish First. We are meant to guard the people from abominations. Surely Merrill told you this. It’s why she was exiled from her clan--for inviting it in, rather than casting it out.” Varric tensed. “Sorry. I don’t mean to insult your friend. I like Merrill.” She smiled wryly. “She’s been driving my brother mad, but I admire her. It takes wisdom to step away from power, when you know you’re not suited. I admire how well she knows herself.”

“You know where she is?” Varric asked casually. “Because last I heard, she was with Anders and the other Resolutionists.”

Imladris answered, “Ask me that question on the other side of the Waking Sea. You know I cannot answer it here.”

They caught up to the others easily, and Imladris hummed the song of Andruil as they went hunting for darkspawn and other signs of Warden activity. Ashara had taught her that song. She remembered singing it in the tavern in the Wycombe alienage, first in Dalish, then in Common, when they were young, Ashara flush on Mouse’s knee, he had just earned the vallaslin, not the first human to follow the Vir Tanadahl, and it must have been before Ashara knew she was pregnant, if they went out drinking. Imladris lightly began to sing the words as they walked: “I hunt a beast so rare and strange, Ghilan’nain, halla-woman, golden hind. Guide my arrow straight and true, for Ghilan’nain awaits…”

“What’chu singing?” Sera asked abruptly. “Sounds familiar.” She scrubbed at her ear fiercely. “You think we’re done with the darkspawn yet? One more tunnel?”

“The darkspawn are never done,” said Blackwall darkly. Varric rolled his eyes.

Imladris, surprised, said, “The song of Andruil. Do you know it?”

“No. Who’s Andruil?”

Imladris frowned. “She’s the goddess of the hunt, Sera. And the halla-woman’s lover, Ghilan’nain.”

“Ah. Elfy shit. No thanks.” Sera shut down abruptly. “Hey Blackwall, do all Grey Wardens have beards?” Imladris touched her face, where Mythal’s branches rested on her cheeks. Ashara had had Andruil’s vallaslin, the thickest lines, framing her entire face. Fly straight and never waver, bend but do not break, and always hunt knowing you are killing a feeling thing. She thought Sera would at least be interested in Andruil. City elves generally fussed over the Dalish. Everyone she knew liked to share stories, swap theories, sing the old songs when they could. Something wrong had happened to Sera, to make her hate her people like that. She had been in Denerim during the Blight, and during both purges. Imladris had survived purges too; it had made her more determined to keep her heritage alive. What had happened?

Varric saw her expression. He touched her arm. “Just leave it. She’ll figure her shit out, eventually. How old is she? Like sixteen?”

“Maybe a bit older.”

“It’s complicated.” “I know. But, still--she’s an elf, Varric. Every time she complains about me, or Solas, being-- _ourselves_ , she’s talking about herself, she’s complaining about the basic essence of who she is. And using me as a reason.”

“She’s a kid. Speaking of Solas, you can tell him to lay off on the ‘furthest from you’re meant to be’ shit, I got enough of that from the Shaperate, and he’s _really_ not helping the kid’s identity crisis--”

“Do you think Solas listens to me?” Imladris asked, exasperated. “Tell him yourself.”

They left the cave, battling giant spiders and darkspawn the whole while. Imladris nearly slipped and fell into the water, but Blackwall’s hand snapped out and grabbed her, and he settled her on her feet. She braced herself against the wind, breathed the salt in as the waves slammed against the cliff, and refused to look down. Ashara had been the better climber. More carefully, she hauled herself over the pillars and back down to the beach.

“So, Free Marches?” Blackwall said cheerfully, as they trudged back to camp.

Imladris eyed him. “Yes.”

“Been to Wycombe once, about twenty years back. A working man can hold his head up high, there. Lots of elves, too.”

As if the Duke of Wycombe had not been trying to systematically eradicate them for the past thirty years. Imladris bristled. “Yes. And there will only be more.” They passed a few Blades of Hessarian on patrol; the mercenaries saluted and Imladris nodded briskly.

Blackwall shrugged. “I like what I’ve heard about Wycombe, that’s all I wanted to say. I don’t know if it’ll work but I’m glad someone is trying.”

Imladris wiped the rain from her face as they reached the campfire, once again established under a canopy. It smelled much nicer than the Fallow Mire, though. A few scouts--impromptu squires--came over and helped them remove their armor. Imladris asked quietly, “What have you heard?”

Blackwall said easily, “Just that it’s a good place to be, if you’re a working man or woman. Especially if you believe in justice. People will look after you, show you respect if you respect them back. I wish I had stayed.”

Imladris was silent. Twenty years ago, she had been in Val Royeaux. Gadden, Mouse, and Ashara had been running Fen’Harel’s Teeth, and Rope was just beginning to integrate the Red Jenny network into the alienage and dwarf-town. It was before Clan Lavellan returned to the Friendly Homes, before the Blight, before the informers and the dirty war they fought between the chevaliers and the spies. But it was also before the dockworkers’ strike, before the March of Return, before the declaration of the rights of the Free People of Wycombe. She had been proud of that speech. Olivine had taken a picture, and Revas painted a mural on the alienage wall. It had gotten Mahanon killed and her tortured, but what else was she supposed to do? They were going to die anyway. Twenty years ago, she had not yet killed Duke Antoine’s first wife, she had not yet burnt her alive. “Things were simpler then,” she said, passing the scout her coat, and accepting a mug of tea. She thanked him quietly and turned back to Blackwall.“I don’t know if we’ll succeed either,” she admitted, “but there was no other option. Like there is no other option but to fight this Breach.”

Darkspawn, sheer cliffs, and plenty if one chose not to farm: Imladris wished she could claim this place for the Dalish. They could fight, they could forage, they could hunt and keep the roads safe. She curled up by the fire and listened to Varric and Blackwall arguing about competitive jousting, something her baby found fascinating, she never understood the point. She worried Mirwen would reach for her in the night again, and that Solas was not there to turn back the darker corners of her mind. She sipped at her tea, hot and bitter. She had stolen better from the tea plantations in Nevarra. She sighed and placed it on the ground, looked outside the flap of the tents. Sera was standing in the rain, face upturned, grinning: what a strange girl. She got up and walked to her.

Sera shivered and turned. “It’s brilliant, right? The dragon…”

Imladris crossed her arms, pulling her coat tighter. Elvhen circulatory systems aside, Sera must have been getting cold. “It was definitely the best thing I’ve seen so far.”

“Even better than the Breach?”

“ _Definitely_ better than the Breach.” Imladris shivered: the absolute destruction of it, of flesh melted from skeletons twisting and screaming towards the gangrous heavens, the stench of human meat on fire--the ground had been warm, but the snow would not melt. “The Breach was the worst thing I’ve seen, since joining the Inquisition.” The rain continued to pour, and Imladris put up a gentle barrier spell over herself and Sera. Sera flinched but did not complain. They watched the sea lap at the shore. “This place, it’s not so different from where I am from. Colder, though.” She glanced at Sera sideways, to see if she wanted a heating spell.

“That magic shit is weird,” Sera said. “Where’re you from? The Dales? North-wherever?”

“The Free Marches, actually. I spent most of my time in and around Free Wycombe--the alienage. Though I lived in Val Royeaux for a bit.”

“Mm. The Red Jennies got weird there,” Sera said companionably. “Got very elfy. That’s your thing, right? The teeth shit? Didn’t work so hot in Denerim, gotta say.” Sera scowled. “Fuck it all, no use to fighting when you’ve got no chance. Better to stick it where it hurts and keep running. Can’t wait, gotta keep it up, ya know?” Sera looked at her, almost frightened, hope in her eyes. “ _You_ know. Face like that, you have to know.”

Imladris paused. “I think it’s best to keep in motion, yes. But…” She stretched, looked up at the gray sky, the rain bouncing off her barrier. Thunder rumbled, a cleaner rain than the Fallow Mire. If she were alone, she would strip and swim in the sea, and let the waters salt her wounds. Physical, internal, emotional, spiritual: what did Solas say? Her spirit had taken a beating. Wear her aware like a lighthouse on an island, sinking into the Waking Sea. Unwaking, unblinking, unwavering. “You can’t drag the dead with you,” she said, more to herself than Sera. “But you can’t pretend they aren’t there. And, well--you say you care about ‘people.’ The little people. Servants. Workers. Elves, we make up most of that. Mages too, you think they were getting paid to enchant and fight for the nobility? It doesn’t matter if you won’t win the battle today. There is always tomorrow. There are always others. And sometimes, you have to make a stand. Not for yourself, but for the others. Even when there’s no chance.”

Sera considered her. “You’re weird,” she said flatly. “Like the older Jennies. They talk like you. Like there’s no end to anything. And they never talk about _now_ , just what’s happening, what’ll happen after. It’s the same, innit? You move so fast there’s no now, not ever, just trying to trip in tomorrow.”

She blinked and tried to parse what Sera was telling her. She was contradicting herself, which Imladris could not fault for her. Sera was young. It would be strange to see her with as coherent a worldview as Cassandra or Blackwall. Still, to be simultaneously cynical and idealistic, clinging to the idea of now with no planning, was not particularly healthy. Who trained her? What made her? She had not been raised in the alienage for long, that was certain--and she hadn’t been in the Red Jennies for long, too. Imladris played it off, and said, “You’re calling _me_ weird? You’re the one standing out here in the rain. Come back to the fire. Varric’s telling Hawke stories again.”

Sera laughed. “Cor, fair point. Let’s hear him go on ‘bout his better friends. Bet’cha we’re gonna see weirder shit than the Champion ever did.”

Imladris rolled her eyes. “Da’len, don’t say that. The Dread Wolf hears you.”

“Wot?” Sera stared at her flatly, then bounded back to the fire. “Oy, Varric, is it true Hawke’s mabari beat the arishok at a game of Wicked Grace?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poetry is spiritually inspired by Victor Serge's collection, A Light in the Desert, down to me ripping off the epigraph from Peguy. I don't have an opinion on Peguy, those lines I paraphrased are the only bits I've read. We are getting closer and closer to AU territory, I promise--the next chapter is on the debacle that is the Divine Justinia's funeral fete, and then we fall straight into the abyss. I named this first part "The Hinterlands Never End" and believe me, it's as tortuous to write as it is to play. But things will get more interesting.
> 
> Hope everyone is staying as safe and sane as they can in this pandemic. Fanfic helps!


	7. Scaramella Va Alla Guerra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imladris attends the Divine Justinia's funeral fete. A Dalish First, sworn to Mythal, trying to appropriately mourn the woman who told Celene to burn Halamshiral's alienage? It goes about as well as one would expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took forever to write, I am sick of looking at it, here you go. Next chapter actually goes into action! And plot! And adventure! I was going to skip this originally, but then realized we needed it to set up for well, you'll find out. The title is a Renaissance song, and many of the story beats were inspired by Hilary Mantel's Wolf Hall. I envision Solas somewhat similar to her Thomas Cromwell. The evanuris seem a lot like the Tudor Court.
> 
> Thanks for sticking around as long as yall have. This will probably be the last update for several weeks. If you can go out and protest, do it, and be safe. Milk is not good for pepperspray, just use water, the milk thing is a myth. Turn off biometrics on your phone. Take care of each other.
> 
> As Assata Shakur said: "It is our duty to fight for our freedom. It is our duty to win. We must love and support each other. We have nothing to lose but our chains."

The rain whispered into Haven. Imladris woke to the bluing morning, tinges of turquoise from the Breach, and paused a moment at her window. The lake was clear and deep again, the ice was melting. Spring was coming, and the fighting would be reignited with it. Tomorrow was the Divine Justinia’s funeral fete.

Hair in a tight, no-nonsense bun: Imladris looked a soldier. Almost black purple paint on her lips, dark green around her eyes: Imladris looked unapologetically Bacchanal, so defiantly Dalish. Mythal’s vallaslin was bright against her skin. The scars were as they always were, now. The new normal: she had gotten used to her ruined face. When she looked into a mirror when dreaming, she saw herself, the assimilation of what was done to her. Halla’den had had no visible scars: she still saw her sister at her shoulder, meat for the crows. Imladris sighed.

Blue mornings, or was that only her? Her clothes were tanned from the road, a dirty pale green scarf around her neck: Josephine would make her bathe again, as if she were not already clean, and change her again. Drizzling the mood set around her, and she moved through it, the slowly melting snow, the waking village. The inner circle was meant to meet at breakfast. Meant, meaning, moving through moods, mourning in the morning: the only difference between here and the Fade was that she had marginally more control over her life in dreaming than here. In the Fade she knew what temptations she would face. In Haven, every day was new. Mahanon would have a song for this, something low and deep that tugged from below and slowly raised one’s spirits upward. She could dream it, but the melody was always lost upon waking, all the things he had not written down. She hummed a song for dreary springs he had written for the gitar: it was not the same.

Inside the hall Iron Bull was already there. Imladris hesitated. He had offered to be her bodyguard, but she didn’t like being around men who were so obviously stronger than her. The Qun thought of all outside themselves as “things,” and mages were only distinguished by being dangerous. She had been bound and gagged before, but having her lips sewn shut, her eyes plucked out, only the Fade to fry her mind--it was beyond a nightmare, she couldn’t even think about it.

“Aneth ara, Iron Bull,” she greeted. She sat in his blind spot and pulled a bowl of fruit towards her, picking out a few small apples. She did not particularly like apples, but if she ate oatmeal again, she’d scream. She pulled out her own paring knife, lovingly made by Olivine, and started to cut them into pieces.

“Morning,” Iron Bull said, moving his head warily so he wouldn’t hit her with his horns. “You sleep okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Imladris responded, then forced her hackles down. She rarely slept well, not since the Hinterlands, and she hadn’t seen her little girl since the Fallow Mire. She had no idea how Mathalin was doing. She sighed and poured herself a cup of tea, a spiced blend from Tevinter, likely plucked by the bleeding hands of slaves. She did not add sugar.

“Party’s gonna be fun,” Bull continued. “Seeing what Orlais and Ferelden make of each other, judging the Inquisition.” He sniffed the air. “Ah, you like that blend? I brought it with me from Seheron. The Qun has its own plantations.”

Imladris took a sip of her tea and forced herself to swallow. “So not farmed with slave labor, then. Just the political enemies whose minds you’ve burnt. I thought I smelled a hint of broken dreams--I was hoping it was just the ginger.”

Iron Bull looked at her askance. Imladris smiled thinly back, and took an apple slice and dipped it into her tea. “Not a fan of the Qun, then. We’re not the savage brutes the Chantry paints us, you know. It’s a good life, for those who need it. Who need the structure, and like the discipline.”

“Discipline?” Imladris was incredulous. The rain was not leaving her gentle, just hollow. “Is that what you call it? Sewing up the mouths of your mages?” She closed her eyes. “Why does everyone insist on engaging me in difficult conversation at breakfast?”

“You tend to be the person starting in,” Bull said, amused. “Personally, I leave the practicalities of the Qun to the priests. They tell me to hit something, keep something contained, I can do that. But I’m not Qunari because I like to think.” Imladris took a second to parse that: Iron Bull was a spy, he very clearly liked to think, and she had noticed him playing chess with Leliana, Cullen and Solas frowning over the board, in Haven’s hall when she returned from the Storm Coast. He knew her distaste for the Qun, he knew she was watching him, so he would express some discomfort with the Qun as a way of signalling commonality, a reason to trust.

Imladris said, “I suppose that’s the difference between my people and your people. All the Dalish do is quarrell--we can’t even agree on how to speak Elvhen. But the Qun is absolute. It surprises me that your people can dream. The dwarves are more flexible.”

Varric came in, a bit soggy. “What about flexibility?” He reached straight for the bacon and began heaping up his plate. Imladris wrinkled her nose. She never understood how someone could eat so heavily in the morning.

“We’re having a disagreeable conversation,” Imladris said. “Qunari spy, Dalish…” she trailed off. How would she describe herself? Keeper, mother, sister, assassin, mercenary. “Dalish Keeper. We’re throwing our worldviews at each other and seeing what sticks. I think the Soul Canto is beautiful, for the record. Everything else, though, is distasteful.”

Iron Bull snorted. “And I think the whole nature-frolicking shit is weird, but I don’t judge Skinner and Dalish for what they need to do to get through the week. Much.”

“We don’t frolick,” Imladris protested. “I resent that.” She leaned back in her chair and grinned, honestly amused. “You all resent us, because we know how to have a good time.” Wycombe was known as the revelry capital of all Thedas. Clan Lavellan knew how to have a good time. The amount of wine they regularly rerouted from Duke Antoine’s caravans proved that. She missed robbing shitty shem merchants, she had to admit; perhaps she could send a letter to Athenril and live vicariously through her efforts in Kirkwall. Deshanna had wanted her to coordinate with a Free Marcher elvhen alliance when she got back from the Conclave. The Inquisition could perhaps help her with that, as long as she were discrete, and did not run afoul of the seneschal. She wished Mouse were here, to nudge her slightly when she spoke too directly; she wished Gadden were here, to cover her tracks, and of course she wished for Rope, to kill the target in the privy before their cover was blown. Imladris was tired.

Varric poured himself a cup of java. “Nice shit, Tiny. From Seheron? I had a friend who fought there.”

“Yeah?” Iron Bull said. “What’d he do there?”

“Kill a lot of people and have a breakdown. You’d like him.”

Bull snorted. “I have to say, this is not what I thought the military wing of the Orlesian Chantry would be like. Much more elfy, and dwarfy, and demon-y...how has that guy Solas not been made Tranquil yet?”

“Sheer charm,” Imladris said drily. “And that he’s the only one in Thedas who has calculated Veil warp against mana frisson--he sat down and wrote out exactly how much mana we will need to expend to heal the Breach, from his studies of Fade rifts. And I’ll burn this town down if they dare try. Ah! Speak of the Dread Wolf and he shall appear.”

Solas stopped short of the table and stared. He began to back away slowly. 

Imladris blinked. “A Marcher saying--sorry. I didn’t realize you took Fen’Harel so seriously.” He would deride the Dalish for the superstitions, but snap back as hard as any pious Keeper at the mention of Fen’Harel. “I apologize. We’ve always...my clan is not the most reverent of the People.”

“It’s fine,” Solas sat down next to Varric. He wrinkled his nose at the java pot, and reached for his usual, the tureen of gruel. He had simple tastes but for his sugar intake. “I gathered as much. Religion, after so much displacement, disperses into folklore and the occasional superstitious ejaculation.”

“Ejaculation,” repeated Iron Bull quietly. Imladris kept her face bland. Hedge mages, Fen’Harel take them: who had taught him to speak Common?

“You talk like a book,” Varric informed Solas, stabbing a piece of sausage. “Like a Ferelden book of manners. A bad one.”

Solas began to mix honey into his gruel. “Would you prefer I mimicked your novels? I could attempt to be a hardboiled detective, dissipated and down-at-the-heel--”

“See, Chuckles,” Varric pointed his fork at him, “I would never use that phrase. I’d just use a simile. ‘He slunk in, like an alley cat beaten after the rain.’ Much more descriptive, see? And more how people actually talk. Keeps the story following, you don’t get stuck in endless dialogue or reflection that way. Verbs, that’s the way to go.” Imladris smiled as they began to bicker, particularly as Vivienne came in and took Solas to task for his most egregious poeticisms. She liked breaking her bread with the Inquisition, she had to admit it. It was not nearly as loving as eating with her family, but in the nine months since the disaster at the Conclave, she had grown fond of her forced companions.

Vivienne, Solas, Sera, and Blackwall were all sniping at each other, which she enjoyed, because it meant she did not have to deal with these bleeding wounds called her companions and could just enjoy the increasingly elaborate put-downs. Varric was scribbling some of them down on a napkin. Iron Bull was taking it all in, clearly analyzing the psychodynamics of the group. Imladris practiced keeping a straight face, and could not help admire Vivienne for being able to take on all three of them at once, and still gain the upperhand. Finally, Josephine and Leliana saved them as Sera’s insults got increasingly feral, and waved them to the war room. Someone had lined chairs against the walls. Imladris and Varric exchanged a glance. It felt a little like school.

“Yeah, I’m gonna break one of those,” Bull said. He leaned against the wall. Sera sprawled across two chairs. Solas stepped away to make sure he didn’t touch her and arranged himself primly in the seat furthest away from her. Imladris slid next to him.

“I feel like we’re in trouble,” she whispered to him, “and we’re all about to be lectured by the Keeper for embarrassing the clan in public.”

“Thus falls the Inquisition,” deadpanned Solas, “humiliated at the funeral fete. Blackwall told me there is customarily a dance with six hats, each representing a different stage of grief and the soul’s simultaneous journey to the Maker’s side. Perhaps you will be required to perform it.”

Imladris was silent for a second. “Then I’m going to make you practice with me. I think you’d look darling in yellow mourning creche.”

“How far Elvhenan has fallen,” Solas mused, chuckling slightly. “I slipped Sera the plaideweave cowl Harrit made me. With a few additions.” Imladris side-eyed him, and he shot her an amused look. “You’ll see.”

“I don’t want to know,” she protested. “I can’t take sides, I’m the Herald of Andraste. Or Mythal. Or the Lady of the Skies. And Lord Woolsey the spirit-ram. Did you catch what kind of spirit it is? Because he’s the only one whose message I will gladly bear, at this point I’m losing count of gods I’m supposed to represent.”

Josephine clapped her hands for everyone’s attention, and they snapped to it, cut silent like a class of young students with a firm but sardonic teacher. “Good morning, everyone! It’s good to finally get the whole of the inner circle in one place, you’re all normally so scattered! Now, we need to ensure we all understand the role we each have to play in tomorrow’s funeral fete. This is the first time we will have hosted representatives from both the Ferelden and Orlesian courts, and the show we put on will make or break our reputation across Thedas. We need to show a united, and  _ elegant _ , military front, else neither the mages nor the templars will take our offer an alliance--”

“We are not allying with the templars,” Imladris interrupted. “I believe I have made my sentiments on the matter clear.”

Josephine grimaced, but recovered, “As you said--but strategically we have more to gain if we appear uncommitted. We do not want to be drawn into the mage-templar war. We only have the authority to investigate the Breach. And we need to reinforce that the Inquisition has been called as the last wish of the Divine, led by her Left and Right Hands. You made a good impression in Val Royeaux. But,” she gestured at the lot of them, “it will be difficult to present two elvhen apostates, a dwarven smuggler, a Ben-Hassrath mercenary, the only Grey Warden in the Hinterlands, and...Sera as an extension of the will of the Divine.”

Varric laughed. “Well, when you put it like that…so, breaking it down for the group--you need us to try to look respectable. Or at least charmingly eccentric.”

Josephine sighed. “We are shooting for charmingly eccentric. Cassandra and Cullen know how to behave--they are working with the troops for a special drill in honor of the Divine. But Vivienne, Leliana, and I have gathered you all here to decide on our plan of attack. And how to,” she closed her eyes briefly, “mitigate whatever damage we may inadvertently cause.”

“Why’s everybody looking at me?” Sera complained.

“Do you really have to wonder?” Vivienne returned.

“Now,” Leliana cut in, “we must discuss outfits. So, shoes--”

“No,” Imladris, Solas, and Sera said in unison. Sera flushed. Solas glanced at her, amused, and Imladris leaned in a little towards him: elvhen solidarity.

“What  _ is _ with elves and shoes, anyway?” Varric asked. “Even after a decade in Kirkwall I could never get Daisy to put something with soles on. Is it a genetic thing?” Varric stared suspiciously at their feet.

“Elvhen secret,” Imladris said briskly. “I’m  _ not _ wearing shoes, Leliana.”

“In Orlais, it is considered very disrespectful to have bare feet in any context besides a deeply personal one, First Lavellan,” Leliana said. “While in the battlefield and even the village, it is...certainly noticeable, it is acceptable because there are more of your people afoot.” Iron Bull laughed. Leliana looked at him curiously, and at her glance he quieted down. “If the three of you only wear your footwraps, it would mark you as servants, to the nobility we are fete’ing.”

“Or you could have only humans staff the party,” Imladris said flatly. “Rather than my people.” Josephine and Leliana exchanged a glance, but Vivienne looked thoughtful.

“I assume you are aware of the tensions between Grand Duke Gaspard and the Empress Celene,” she said. “And how the self-styled Ambassador Briala has been agitating for the rights of the elves of Orlais. If you are so set on your course, my dear, of training Haven’s country people to staff the Divine’s fete, we might as well make a political point out of it. Our guests will expect some show of favor towards Gaspard or Celene. With the Herald as the guest of honor--”

“Guest of honor?” Imladris repeated. Varric was laughing at her, damn him. Solas blinked out of his usual disassociation only to look amused. She resisted the urge to kick him; she didn’t think he would be so amused at that. “We were only speaking of servants--”

“Honoring a Dalish elf, known to have connections with Briala’s people--I saw your little tete-a-tete with the Comtesse Helene at my soiree, darling--will send a message that the Inquisition will not intervene on either side, and must be courted.” Vivienne looked satisfied. “Of course, my staff can manage the fete. We don’t have the time to teach these Ferelden servants their manners. And they, of course, are familiar with the best of the Orlesian court, and are accustomed to their...peculiarities.”

“I see,” Imladris said. Vivienne would be master of ceremonies, and accordingly their guests would defer to her as representative of the Inquisition. “Josephine, what do you think? You know the Game.” Which Vivienne, needless to say, had lost. She knew she should not be so petty, but it was hard to resist when working with Vivienne--and she realized Vivienne saw it as a weakness, that she could so easily rattle Imladris. She resolved to be more patient, as patient as the Andrastian saint they all thought she would be. Well. As Sera thought she should be.

Josephine said, “You speak Orlesian, yes? Would you be willing to make a short address on the Divine and her endorsement of our work with the Inquisition?”

“Wouldn’t it be better for Cassandra or Leliana to do this?” Imladris asked. “I didn’t know her. I still don’t remember how she died. I’m not Andrastian. The only canticle I know is  _ banned _ . I’m a priest of Mythal! And I spent six months in prison for an apostasy charge when I lived in Val Royeaux. I am perhaps not the most appropriate ‘guest of honor’ for this.”

“You were in prison?” Sera asked admiringly. “Is  _ that _ how you got those scars?”

Varric cleared his throat. “Alright, so this is getting a little out of hand. I’m not sure there’s any way you can make us respectable, Josephine. Like, we’re unusual, even by my standards. And I hung out with Hawke.”

Vivienne crossed her arms. “And that is why I am here,” she said. “To lend you the legitimacy you all lack.” Her eyes cut to Imladris. “The Inquisition is gaining renown amongst the common folk of Ferelden, and amongst the nobility that still mourn the Divine. But you must prove to them that you are worthy of their investment. And, to be frank, Lavellan--your reputation is  _ bad _ . Bad for an apostate, even.” Imladris flinched. “You left the University of Orlais not just in disgrace, but in chains. You were given an opportunity to enter Orlesian society and you not only refused it, you made it nearly  _ impossible _ for any other elf, mage or not, to do the same. Make no mistake--what happened at Halamshiral was a tragedy, but it was a tragedy you and Ambassador Briala staged.”

Imladris was up on her feet and hissing, “How  _ dare _ \--” but Leliana was sighing as Vivienne drew back, and Josephine looked disappointed.

“Exactly,” Vivienne said. “Exactly. I do dare, and the people coming will dare  _ worse _ . You performed well at my soiree, darling. You do well with those amongst the nobility already predisposed to like you. But you do not control the board, and you must learn to play the game--by  _ their _ rules, not by some bizarre code of Briala’s making. Your people--elves and apostates and  _ rebel mages _ \--do not know how to play the game. That is why you have invariably lost every direct clash in your war with one of the most disliked nobles in Thedas. If you arranged to have him publicly disgrace himself instead of  _ murdering his wife and heir _ , you would have garnered much more sympathy. No one likes a victim, darling,” Vivienne said. “Play the game. You’re risking much higher stakes than a few Dalish villages.”

Blackwall coughed slightly. Solas wordlessly handed him a handkerchief. He blew his nose into it and offered it back. Solas grimaced slightly and gestured at him to keep it. Imladris watched them rather than Vivienne, and considered her options. She could light her on fire, but that would prove her point. She could snap back at her, but that was what Vivienne wanted her to do. The former First Enchanter clearly did not want her to fail. What did winning look like?

“These people are expecting a Dalish savage,” Imladris said, hyperconscious of her audience. “Whatever that word means. I will speak Orlesian to them, and speak prettily. But I am not hiding behind the Inquisition. I am not disguising my vallaslin.” She snorted slightly. “Or my scars, for that matter. And I will not lie about what I believe. I cannot change the facts of what I have done.” She forced herself to stare back at Vivienne, unflinching. They were all watching her, considering, evaluating, these strange people who had gathered about her. She wanted, desperately, her family: Gadden and Mouse smoothing over any difficulties she and Rope might have caused, Revas rolling his eyes at any shem’s attempt to intimidate them, Rope already bribing a servant to let them into their enemy’s quarters, Olivine a bit apart, watching to see the mood of the room and warning them when it shifted. Gadden knew how to talk to petty courtiers, he had done business with them for House Cadash and the Carta. Mouse knew how to be politely self-effacing, and Olivine knew how to charm. She needed them. In a flash, Imladris realized that it was less likely the templars would kill her in this war. What would kill her would be a pissed-off noble, and the Inquisition would only save her as long as she proved herself useful. Pride goeth before the fall: she asked, “So, First Enchanter. What guests should I avoid?”

* * *

The answer was: all of them and none of them. Vivienne had Josephine and Leliana play the various nobles who would attend, and had each member of the Inquisition practice responding. Varric ended up lending a hand in coaching, though everyone, even Sera, performed better than they assumed. “It’s not that I don’t know how to behave,” she explained, “just don’t see the point.” Vivienne sniffed, but demurred from disagreeing. There was, as the girl herself acknowledged, no point. Imladris was beginning to think all her companions were hiding some tie to the nobility from her--Sera knew which fork to use and could speak Orlesian with a better-bred accent than her, Solas seamlessly smiled away insult and quietly returned the favor, and Blackwall stayed stolidly chivalrous, punctuating every statement with a, “of course, milord, thank you.” Only Iron Bull seemed unchanged.

“Hey, they won’t believe it if I’m smooth,” he said. “Somebody’s gotta be a boar. Why not the guy with the horns?”

Imladris glanced as Vivienne and answered, “I’m certain you will rise to the expectations you set, Bull. But you really cannot break the hand of every would-be chevalier who challenges you to an arm wrestle. Settle for a finger, at least.”

“How ‘bout two?”

“Depends on how many elves they’ve killed,” Imladris retorted despite Vivienne’s look of warning. “We’ll go through the guestlist.” The room was growing stuffy, despite the rain whisking at the window, and the fire stifling. They had started not long after dawn, and it was past time for dinner. Wearily she rubbed her eyes and wondered: if I bait the Arl of Edgehall to challenge me to a duel, can I name myself the arl in his place and protect the Vhenadahl? Or will even looking at him be insolence, and will he take that out of my people’s flesh? She was conscious of eyes on her, as always: Leliana, Vivienne, and Solas. “I think that’s enough for the day,” she said to the room. “Must we...entertain Edgehall? He’s been starving out the alienage since his father died.”

Leliana gave her an inscrutable look. “We need the Ferelden nobility united under our banner. We might have Alistair’s blessing, but he cannot send us troops until he has the aristocracy’s votes. And Edgehall is the closest fiefdom to Haven. And if he sends his knights to us, then the alienage and Clan Boranehn will have fewer soldiers to worry about. But if we  _ insult _ him, well, he’s not known for his gentleness of temper. The stakes are high, First Lavellan. That is the Game. But we will guide you through this.”

The heat of the fire, the stench of ash, was building in her throat and making it difficult to breathe. Spring was coming, spring was not here. They were watching, she could see their faces in the warped windowpane, lashed by the rain. Mirrored she saw Solas taking in her features, his odd chiselled face dismissive, and she turned around and stopped herself from asking him how he dared judge her, as if he were playing the same stakes. He only had his life to risk. She had every elf in Ferelden and Thedas relying on her to win these petty games, a more immediate need than healing the Breach in the sky. She thought of Mihris’ warning: the Dread Wolf has your scent. She could feel his jaws, slavering to bite: but in the stories the children always survived. She prayed, briefly: lend me your cleverness. As you hunt alone, so I do, apart from the People. Everything I do reflects on them. Lend me your tricks. I need every single one of them.

Sera said plaintively, “I’m  _ hungry _ . And  _ bored _ . Are we done yet? I get it, I get it, if I fuck up all the elves get killed, blah blah blah, they’re gonna kill us anyway. Except Elfy Elf and Lady Elfybits, since  _ you _ need  _ them _ . Sucks to suck. Who gives a fuck for dead elves?”

Vivienne’s eyes bore her cold, and so Imladris only smiled and said, “The late Divine Justinia, may she rest in the peace she made, said that all were the Maker’s children. Even me, a Dalish mage. Her compassion was well-known.”

“Passable,” Vivienne said. “We might make a success out of this yet. You can’t pretend to be even a little Andrastian, can you? I suppose the tattoos make it unconvincing. We could manufacture a conversion.”

Imladris got up and left before they could devise an incantation to wipe the vallaslin from her face. Sera bounded after her, but Varric intercepted, inviting her and Blackwall and Iron Bull to the tavern. Solas walked a ways with her, but seemed disinclined to follow. She exhaled as she exited the dark hall, the driving rain slapping her in the face. She could breathe again. The cold soothed her. She turned and saw Solas doing the same.

“That room,” she said, “was claustrophobic. I don’t understand why Vivienne and Josephine thought the learning experience would be improved by  _ not _ cracking a window.”

“I suppose you are used to spending your time outside.” Solas cast a quick barrier spell over both of them, to keep the rain off. She smiled and stepped closer.

“Walk with me?” she offered. “To the lake and back. I’m waiting ‘til that lot clears out before sneaking something from the kitchens.” Solas considered her and for a second she thought she had overstepped, but he shrugged and gestured at her to continue, and she lead the way through the woods, and they gathered elfroot and discussed Vivienne’s machinations, Leliana’s grief, and their mutual admiration for Josephine, for managing to coordinate between the two. They took turns keeping each other dry, and eventually the rain stopped. Solas told her about what he had seen in the Fade here, of the Hero-Wardens of Ferelden at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She had met Mahariel briefly once, before the Blight, and she had been raised on the legends of Tabris’ mother. He described to her both women’s reaction to the spectre of Shartan: Mahariel’s anger, Tabris’ grief, and their renewed faith in their disparate gods. Mahariel had told him Falon’din would guide him home, Tabris had sworn Andraste’s faithful would remember her promise, the Dirthavaren.

“Shartan’s buried here?” Imladris said, surprised. “I thought the People secreted his remains to Var Bellanaris, before the fall. So my grandfather always told me--and he’s of the first generation after the March, and still safeguards the tombs from human raiders.”

Solas said, “No. The Dalish have lost much of the Way but I do not doubt the veracity of your grandfather’s claims. But the Fade works differently than the physical realm. I found the shade of Shartan where he had once been betrayed, where he realized Andraste’s forces would not be enough to secure the People. If she had listened to him...but we were damned anyway, with the Blight.”

Imladris tensed. “Oh, as if it were the  _ Dalish’s _ fault we didn’t send men to fight a Blight that did not encroach upon our borders.” 

Solas looked at her sharply. “That’s not what I meant.” He sighed. “Well. They had eight centuries--and only produced an imperial aristocracy, at that. At least  _ they _ did not own slaves. And for most of today’s elves, well--I once heard an elf in Kirkwall contemplate selling himself to the Blind Men, because he couldn’t find work and he assumed a Tevinter master would at least feed his investment. So little has changed.”

Imladris was annoyed. “We’re not helpless victims, Solas. Adaia Tabris led the Denerim uprising. There was Wenna, and Alidda, Garahel and Warden Senaste and so many others, who have successfully fought for the People. We’re trying. More and more have been able to escape Tevinter, and the Dalish have been beating back slavers along Wycombe, Ostwick, and Kirkwall’s coast. And Kirkwall--we used to say the People would never find justice in Kirkwall, not since the First Blight, but that guard friend of Varric fought to have the magistrate’s son prosecuted for his crimes against the alienage children, even at the cost of her own promotion. It’s getting better. In Wycombe, Clan Lavellan’s reclaimed almost half of our ancestral lands, and our kin in the alienage have their own school now. We’ve built a life for ourselves, with House Cadash and the Blight refugees. It’s not the life my parents expected for us, or my grandfather,” she smiled crookedly, thinking of Hawen and his devotion to the dead, “and yes, we are still at the mercy of Duke Antoine. But my daughters are growing up freer and more--unfettered than any other elvhen child in the Free Marches. They know their worth. They will never doubt it. And they aren’t like some, thinking we need to live separately from shem, be them dwarves or humans. They can survive in this world.” She was trying to convince herself, she realized, rather than Solas.

Solas asked her, “Then why are you so anxious about meeting the Arl of Edgehall tomorrow? If you think the elves are not helpless. Why did Vivienne have to give you a lesson in humiliation? The Chantry cropped Shartan’s ears and erased him from their Chant, lethallin. What do you think they’re preparing to do to you?”

“If you’re trying to be reassuring,” Imladris said, “you’re falling short of the mark.” She got up and stretched. “We’re fucked. I’m fucked. I know that. But allow me the delusion of free will, while it lasts.”

* * *

She looked horrid in black and yellow, but that was what passed as mourning in Orlais, and so that was what Josephine dressed her in. The first dance was already going on when she entered Haven’s hall on Cullen’s arm--“Scaramella fa la gala colla scharpa, et la stivala, la zombero boro borombetta, la zombero boro borombo…” She had learned this song at the jousts last year. She and her brother had brought Mirwen as a treat, Revas was friendly with a few of the jockeys. She made that ridiculous butterfly-curtsey at the nobles assembled, and was pleased to see them flutter back at her.

Cassandra stepped forward. Josephine had forced her out of her armor and into a simple suit of gray velvet. Nevarran mourning customs were more forgiving when it came to avoiding a resemblance to the common bumblebee. “The Herald of Andraste,” Cassandra said aloud to the crowd. “Or, at least, the only one to survive the Breach, and the only one with the power to close it. Who came to the Divine’s aid, in her final moments.”

Imladris reflexively made a fist. She spoke dramatically, “And, by Elgar’nan’s fire, will avenge them. For the Divine, we will see this Breach closed.” She caught Vivienne’s eye from across the room. Vivienne nodded: passable. Good enough. The aristocracy was there in all its pomposity, with a mixture of Ferelden court officials and Orlesian petit nobilite. A couple of dwarves from the Merchants’ Guild were gathered by Varric, who was visibly annoyed. She was the only Dalish, as always. Sera was not even present, and Solas was standing in a quiet corner of the room, watching.

Leliana put her through her paces, leading her by the hand, and when the Countess Chalons remarked in Orlesian that Leliana certainly had good taste in wildlife, Imladris responded coolly in the same that she had found Orlais quite tame. After that, no one was overtly rude to her. They made her dance: first, there was a collective mourning dance that Varric partnered with her.

“This is utterly ridiculous,” she whispered to him, as the room impersonating butterflies being released to the Maker’s Garden.

“Just keep fluttering your arms,” Varric said. “Don’t you know, for every beat you miss, a servant gets hit?”

“Haha,” Imladris stated, “don’t I know it. Look, I think Cassandra is having a religious experience.”

She glanced over, where Cassandra was dancing, or manhandling, Solas. She quickly looked away, to keep herself from laughing. Unfortunately, on her other side was Iron Bull, attempting to flutter gently by Vivienne. He really wanted her to fuck him. Dancing together, they resembled a wyvern attempting a mating dance with a statue.

“Damn,” Varric said. “Iron Lady likes having the Bull whip himself for her, I guess.” He looked at Imladris merrily. “He told me he likes to play a power game. Just, I thought of him as a top!”

Imladris laughed just as the music stopped playing, and everyone stared at them. She and Varric carefully arranged their faces in appropriate mourning. She could hear the murmurings. She had misstepped. Vivienne iced up to her.

“Do try  _ not _ to laugh at a funeral, my dear,” she said. “Particularly at the one for a woman whom much of the court assumes you murdered.”

Imladris said diplomatically, “I apologize, my grief caught up with me. We all have different ways of expressing it.”

“Indeed.” Vivienne turned to the man beside her, a florid Ferelden in a stinking dyed yellow fur coat. Imladris appraised it quickly, with the trader’s eye Cadash had taught her: cheap dye, will fade in a few years, looked like bear fur, a copy of the King’s, then. He must have gotten it from a catalogue, so whatever his demesne, it was a backwater. “May I introduce the Arl of Edgehall? Gell Lendon, returned from his exile in Orlais.”

Imladris reflexively bared her teeth into a smile, stretching the scars on her teeth. “Ah, monsieur. I have heard of you.”

“Really,” the arl said. “And I have heard of you, Lavellan. It’s startling to see one of you Dawlish,” Imladris almost interrupted but Vivienne curled her fist and crept ice around her wrist, “finally bending the knee. Perhaps Divine Justinia’s sacrifice will not be in vain, if the elves are finally turning to the Maker. You see, I worry about my elves.”

The Arl of Edgehall killed elves. He forced them to live in a small fort out of the city proper, where they were prey to marauders and darkspawn bands. Occasionally the local Dalish clan, Boranehn, brought supplies from deeper in the forest, and Imladris had received a letter from a young man named Coran begging that the Dalish clans in general begin spiriting away their kin in the alienage. Under Gell Lendon, he feared, their People would not survive. He would burn the Vhenadahl down, before letting them have their own arable land.“I know you do,” Imladris said. Vivienne shot her a warning look. Josephine disentangled herself from a crowd of Chantry sisters and stalked over.

“Ah, Arl Lendon,” their diplomat smiled, “so good of you to come join our mourning. As you see, we are all united in our distress that such a leader for  _ peace _ is gone. Lady Lavellan,” Imladris suppressed a smile at the title, “has been assiduous in hunting down her killer and bringing the Divine’s justice to the Hinterlands. From the Dalish clans to the King’s men, we have all benefited from her presence. Divine Justinia would be proud.”

“She was ever an advocate for peace,” Imladris said. Divine Justinia had told Celene to “deal with the elves” during the uprising of Halamshiral. Celene had burnt the city down, to absolutely no censure. Instead, Justinia had praised her for defending the Chantry. She forced herself to smile. She and Mahanon had lost so many friends in the burning of the Dirthavaren.

Arl Lendon folded his arms. “I hope elves across Thedas learn from your example, Herald. Particularly mine. Do you know they still worship at that ridiculous tree? Maker take them! We gave them the privilege of settling close to the city wall, we allow their children to learn the Chant, and yet they persist in their heresy. You give me faith for a better world, Herald. If a Dawlish can take Andraste’s blessing, perhaps this is a sign the Maker will return to us soon. If the elves can learn, as the late Divine herself said--”

Imladris walked away and left the glimmering hall behind, as the petty nobility of Thedas whirled and laughed and dramatically wiped single tears from their cheeks, the wailing flute of the music grating on her ears. She kept moving even as Cullen attempted to intercept her, pushing him away gently as she opened the door of the hall herself, closing it softly behind her. Through the rain she went unhurried to her cabin, where she changed out of the Inquisition uniform and took her hair out of its tight bun. Nude, she warmed herself by the fire and wished she had gotten full-body vallaslin like her mother’s clan. She wished she had gotten Elgar’nan’s brand, which covered half the face in shadow. She wished she had worn her Keeper robes. When she could feel again, she found the tunic and leggings she had brought with her from Wycombe and pulled them on. She regarded herself in the mirror: she had her mother’s eyes and nose but her father’s lips and chin and ears, and her grandfather at the last Arlathvhen told her she smiled and laugh and glared like her mother, like he himself did. Her daughters, of course, did not look much like her, taking after their pretty father, who had been proud that most of his alienage looked like him. Still, they had her magic, her language, her tales. Unlike their father, they knew how to stalk a deer and skin it, even little Mirwen knew how to use a knife.

During her second week at the University of Orlais, when Imladris was thinking about running away to the Dales and her grandfather’s clan, Briala had stopped her and taken her to the monumental mural of Henri de Lydes, the only surviving portrait of Shartan. His ears had been painted over. Briala said, “We will not be remembered like that. Whatever happens to us, we will not be erased.” Imladris picked up a hand mirror and frowned. Her vallaslin was fading: as to be expected, she had received it when she was about sixteen, after the Duke of Wycombe had slaughtered almost every elf over the age of twenty and driven them out of their towns, after the clan had been scattered amongst his farms. Clan Zathrian had send their Second, a woman named Lanaya, and she had gone from village to village and found the People. Survival had been a deed worthy enough of Mythal’s brand. The children of Clan Lavellan survived, and when she and Mahanon left Orlais, she had brought them together again, and they returned to the ruins of their ancestors and built something magnificent. No matter what the Chantry did to her, that could not be erased. They could not take her vallaslin away.

Imladris picked up the little pot of purple make-up she kept with her and painted her vallaslin brighter. When she fell asleep, paint dry on her skin, she dreamed about the the winding delta of the Friendly Homes: Baranduin, Anduin, and the Ithilien, and the cities they built hidden deep in the cliffs. When she woke the paint had not smudged. She put her head in her hands as she realized the day she had to face, the disaster of the party, Vivienne’s scorn, but she did not weep. With Mythal’s brand bright upon her face, Imladris left her shack and confronted the next day. Mythal give me your blessing, she prayed. Mythal, show me the right way.


	8. The Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition meets the mages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to wrap up this whole arc in a monster of a 20k word chapter, but the document itself was getting unwieldly. So, here we go, almost to the end, and almost to our AU territory. but what's quarantine good for except to take on a sprawling project that has too many plotlines to explore?

Desire was thundering down her body, and Imladris threw herself into mindless Inquisition tasks to keep her mind off the craving, once forgotten. She dragged Sera and Blackwall and Varric through the Storm Coast, collecting ore for the Inquisition soldiers and satisfying Threnn’s perpetual requisitions. She took Vivienne with her to the Fallow Mire, with Iron Bull and Cassandra, and found herself growing to like them all, as Iron Bull flirted shamelessly with Cassandra and Cassandra joked back, Vivienne holding court and tantalizing with gossip about Celene and Leliana’s old friend, the apostate Morrigan. She learned how to dance, Cullen awkwardly shepherding her down the hall until Vivienne finally sighed in disgust and took charge, and she spent long hours at the war table, arguing with the council over the best move to court the Orlesian Chantry, to continue to stonewall both Gaspard and Celene, to help the Dalish in the Free Marches, and to tell Prince Vael of Starkhaven to fuck himself without hurting her people in Wycombe. Still, at the end of every long day, she ached, and wondered: why now? Why has desire come back to me? It was something she had thought lost, and with Mahanon gone, did not want to regret. Why now?

Spring stole into the Frostbacks and Imladris wrote endless letters, to Felassan, to Deshanna, to her daughters, and got replies too. Felassan told her not to fuck anything he wouldn’t, desire was complex. His letters were short and goodhumored and a little melancholy and utterly devoid of any detail about what he was doing, focusing only on sex and healing and advice about the return of sensuality, and he pointedly ignored the bits of her letters that got a little horny. Deshanna told her she was doing the People proud, that Leliana’s shipment had arrived, and the city elves in Wycombe proper were reinforcing the tunnels to the sewers, in case they needed a quick escape. Her brother Revas added that things were getting better in Kirkwall and Ostwick since the Divine’s funeral fete, Seneschal Bran had put a lowly pro-mage Ferelden captain in charge of the city guard, a woman named Aveline, a friend of Varric’s, and Bann Trevelyan had been heard speaking at a council about his gratitude for the Dalish of the Free Marches, for taking in his daughter once the Circle had broken. Mathalin wrote that she missed her and that Deshanna wasn’t letting any of the young Dalish leave the Friendly Homes anymore, and Mirwen was having bad dreams and they had started sleeping with Auntie Rope because Mirwen said she held the flame and Uncle Revas attracted too many demons in his sleep. 

She had so much on her mind and so much to do, and still, in her little shack and her too comfortable bed, Imladris squirmed and threw her face into her pillow and thought about the broad lines of his back, his firm ass, how she wanted to trail her nails down his spine and rest a second at his tailbone, how satisfying the feel of him might be--utterly unsuitable, to fuck a man like that. She had been avoiding him since the Mire. It was unfair, though, to punish a man for her desire. She thought Mahanon, how they would laugh in bed, she thought about Felassan and the familiarity of him, she thought about how she had left herself in prison and in that field, and the farmer’s wife who had bathed her and pulled her back together, and Imladris rose in bed and put her head in her hands and murmured aloud, “Enough.” Now she was just punishing herself. For what? Wanting and wanting to be wanted, reciprocal interest, intensity too intimate to be enacted upon. If she stayed in her cabin and brooded she would drive herself mad and angry, associating desire with helplessness, and so Imladris stepped into the defrosting night and went out to the tavern.

The cold took her breath away. The nights were still edging out winter. She leaned into the wind, enjoying the frost whipping at her cheeks, wicking desire into something crystal, the gladness of sensation, and when she entered the tavern people cheered. She mock-saluted, barely recognizing the faces--the patrol that had gotten lost at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, the scouts who had been taken capture in the Fallow Mire, some Blades of Hessarian, that one Avvar, a few Dalish from Clan Alerion and some of Vale’s Irregulars. Everyone was roaring, the fire was crackling, and Imladris felt the good cheer around her like a physical blow. She told herself, cheer the fuck up. Your life has been worse than this. Mahanon would want you to be happier than this. She saw Sera wildly gesticulating at a table in the back, Varric looking disbelieving and Iron Bull laughing into his drink, and sauntered over. She could feel eyes on her--some admiring, some scared, some desiring, and she let herself exult in it.

“So then I go, ‘SAY WHAT’ and the eejit just looks at me and goes, wah hahahaha-haaaa, wha--’ and arrow to the face!” Sera crowded, punching the air.

“Andraste’s ass, kid,” Varric said, shaking his head, “tell me you took the guards out first. Or there’s a warrant waiting for you in Denerim, once this is over.”

“The Jennies got me out,” Sera protested, still grinning, “they got some of those super elfy elves to take me to the Orlesian border, led by some Grey Warden weirdie, Velanna? Brr. Scary shit. Anyway, been holing up in Val Royeaux and avoiding the elf-shit since, too boring with that Harillan crap. You know? They talk about elections. Ugh. Not like choosing the boot that kicks you is better.”

Iron Bull looked amused. “And explain to me how this relates to the Inquisition? How’d you end up here? Bit of a serious game for a Red Jenny recruit.” Iron Bull caught Imladris staring at him and raised his tankard at her. Ben-Hassrath, Imladris reminded herself, spy, and sharper than he looks. He was in Seheron. 

Sera turned around and cheered. “Lady Elfybits!” she said. “Thought you were too good to be slummin’ it. What, got tired of praying to your demons?”

Imladris thought that was actually a very accurate description of what she had been doing: she had gotten tired of letting her worst fears and anxieties run amok. “Something like that,” she said. “Lady Elfybits?”

“Ears,” Sera said. “Tattoo-shit. Baldie’s Lord Elfybits if he can ever make up his mind whether he wants to fuck you. Which is gross. Because ugh, men, and also bald? Elvhen glory shit, my arse.”

Varric said, “Why don’t I get you a drink?” and escaped, chuckling as he went.

Imladris took his seat. “Right then. Sera, let’s make this clear. My sex life? Not a topic of discussion. Or of notice. I am, after all, the Herald of Andraste. And good Andrastians don’t fuck. And as Madame de Fer--”

“Madame Prissybitch,” Sera interrupted.

“Quite. As Vivienne has established, I need to be a good Andrastian. Else heads roll. And not my head. Heads of little people, who’ve gotten caught up in this because of me. So. If anyone asks--I am devoted to the Maker’s mission. There is no Lord Elfybits. And certainly not when others can hear.” She raised an eye at Iron Bull. Iron Bull smiled and took a long draught of me.

“Eh, boss, the Ben-Hassrath have more important things to worry about than your sex life, or lack thereof,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about my reports. Though I don’t fault you for looking. Guy’s got the nicest ass I’ve ever seen on an elf.”

I know, Imladris thought mournfully. I know.

Sera giggled. “How would you and elves even work? We’re so tiny. Even Baldie. You’d fucking break him.” She cackled again. “What’d you do, spit him on your cock like a chicken?”

Varric came in and handed Imladris a beer she already knew she would not drink. “Who’s a chicken?” he asked.

“You really don’t want to know,” Imladris said. Sera snagged her drink and attempted to chug it, choking halfway down. Imladris slapped her back. It was like drinking with the children--Samahl was of an age where he could handle his liquor, but Malika still drank like her age, a seventeen-year-old girl. She eyed Sera. They must be about the same age, she decided, though her niece had perhaps a better sense of herself and what she wanted from the world. At least Malika had a coherent response as to why she thought the Val Royeaux Alienage’s efforts at intervening in municipal elections were counterproductive. Longing mixed in with desire, she wanted the intimacy of her family, the heat of the tavern reminded her of those long nights at home, rare time when everyone was together but Mouse and Gadden would slap together a meal and Olivine would be outlining her plan to shake up the Shaperate via her Carta connections and her friendship with that golem Shale, just because the Merchants’ Guild only cared about economics didn’t mean they couldn’t find a market for memory-machines in the Marches and Orlais. Mahanon’s arm was heavy around her shoulders, she would tuck a hand under his shirt, nails tapping at his back, and he would be humming something, always a song, that bard was singing a fucking pro-Celene song, reign of the lion she would burn Halamshiral to the ground before she let Celene win, Imladris needed to leave.

“Think I’m going on a walk,” Imladris said vaguely, and she noticed Bull’s gaze sharp on her back, fucking Qunari spies, she had never asked for any of this, she never possibly imagined she could get stuck in a situation like this, but Sera was getting drunker and Varric barely noticed Imladris slip away, and she padded into the relative quiet of the night. Most of the humans had already tucked themselves away in their homes or at the tavern, fleeing the cold, and so Imladris headed for the areas she had never seen any Inquisition soldiers linger. She had grown up near water--the river delta of Wycombe that stretched to the sea, and though the coast was treacherous she missed piloting her boat from village to village. She remembered working with Mouse, during the Blight, to hunt slavers who preyed on refugees, humans, dwarven, and elvhen alike. They would pole their raft through the mangroves of the delta, just the two of them, tracing Gadden’s Carta reports, and wreck Mythal’s justice against the Blind Men and the other thieves. They had confirmed the Duke of Wycombe was working with them, had been for years. It had swayed much of the merchant class and some of the nobility to their side, though the Orlesian faction still dominated. She shuddered and told herself: stop. Those hunts she was too tired to remember, with the Breach like this.

She walked towards the dock but someone had already claimed the solitude: Solas, silently smoking, curled into himself. He turned as she approached, eyes glinting in the dark. Behind him, the Breach pulsed. Her hand ached and she clenched her fist.

“Oh, you’re looking to be alone,” Imladris said, already taking a step back.

Solas said distantly, “No, no.” He waved her over, and she smiled as she sat next to him. He had cast a warming spell at the edge of the dock, and she felt it wrap over her like a fur huddled over the shoulders. He was, of course, wrapped in his usual wolfskin. He offered her a drag and she took it: royal elfroot, from the one plot a little too near to the dragon in the Hinterlands.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” she commented, to fill the silence, and passed it back.

“Habitually, I don’t.” Solas took a long drag and breathed the smoke out into the shape of a dragon. He looked at her from the corner of his eye to see the effect he had, and she laughed at him. He smiled, and said in Elvhen, “But nights like these require some cushioning to get through.”

“Yes,” she said. “Homesick?”

Solas laughed shortly. “Home is long behind me. But, the smell of wet spring through the snow, the moons like this,” he waved a hand at the moonlight reflecting in the lake, “melancholy sets in.”

“Heartsick,” Imladris said. “I understand. No matter where you are, nights like these leave you restless.” She bumped her shoulder into his, and though he stiffened slightly, he did not pull away. “What’s on your mind?”

Solas leaned into her slightly, and closed his eyes. “We must close this Breach,” he said instead. “There is much to do, and little time left. I fear we act too late. But as always, there was no other option. No better way. So I must trust that I have done all that I could.”

Imladris looked at him in surprise. “We’re lucky that you’re here, Solas. With your knowledge of the Veil...and I’m lucky--I cannot imagine what it would be like, facing them down without another of the elvhen at my side.” She thought of Cassandra, asking her if there were room for one more god in fallen Arlathan. “It is easier to resist their attempts at humiliation, with you at my side.”

Solas was silent. Embarrassed, Imladris glanced at him quickly and then looked away. He looked ashamed. She opened her mouth, not to apologize, she had nothing to apologize for, but to ask if she had overstepped her bounds, but he said, “I am glad I am able to provide some little comfort. I do not envy your position, and you deserve better than this.”

Imladris pulled her legs up and hugged her knees. Solas almost, but not quite, had his arm around her. She closed her eyes: this flirtation reminded her of youth, of those first tentative touches before she met Mahanon. With him, it had been easy. He had fallen through her ceiling and right into her bed, he had joked: but Solas was so reserved, so gentle in his movements. She still was not certain if she wanted to disturb this odd friendship they had struck up. “I miss my children,” she said. “My family, my friends. This has been the longest I’ve been away from home since I had my first daughter. When I come home, if I do...my aravel does what they can, they don’t need me, I was Mathalin’s age when my parents were killed. But I thought I would be there. Adolescence is hard on elvhen girls, there is so much I need to teach her, and at least you’ve cleared a path for Mirwen when she Dreams, but what about when she’s older? There are only a few Dreamers left amongst the Dalish, and she’s too young to leave the Lavellan, and the Dreamers I know wander too close to the Tevinter border--”

“We do not know the future,” Solas said. He pointedly handed it back to her: calm down. But calm was against her very nature. She took a drag anyway, slightly suspicious that it was winding her up worse. To spite herself, and him, and the world, she shaped the smoke into the Dalish mask heraldry. Solas rolled his eyes at her. “You do not know what closing the Breach will bring. It is better to find peace where and when you can. Life is just one catastrophe after another. While you have breath, catch it.”

Imladris actually laughed at that, then coughed a little. She passed it back. “Words of wisdom from our resident Fade expert. I’ll remember that.” She pushed herself back up. “You’re right. I should try to sleep. Redcliffe will doubtless be--your words, not mine--a catastrophe. So I just won’t think about it, and I’ll frolic in the Fade and hope I won’t be consumed by an Anxiety demon.”

Solas was amused. “Have you met an Anxiety spirit? They’re too self-defeating to be of harm. The danger is trying to comfort them. You need to let them worry themselves out, patiently, listening but not giving ground.”

“Good night, Solas,” Imladris laughed. As she turned to go, she said, “Thank you.”

“Sleep well,” he said. “If you run into trouble, call for me and I will be there.”

* * *

The snow had melted away: it was spring in the Hinterlands. Imladris led a guard of Inquisition soldiers towards Redcliffe Village, sweating a bit in her Inquisition-standard armor. Leliana and Cullen had contrived it between themselves, to her pleasant surprise: so she marched at the head of an Andrastian heretic force, with the full consent and cheer of the people of Redcliffe, to the aid of the rebel mages’ and the unspoken consent of the King. The journey in the Fade had been horrible, but magic was a strangeness in which she had been raised. This was just weird.

Imladris was musing to herself about the vagaries of faith when Solas spoke up. “I will remember this,” he said, jolting her from her thoughts. “When it is over.”

Blackwall stared at him. “This? This war? The Inquisition?”

“The people,” Solas stressed. “How you fought against the tide. It is,” he hesitated, “courageous.” His face twisted but just as suddenly, he sighed heavily and said, “Forgive me. My dreams have been unquiet.”

“Alright,” Blackwall said. “Been in a bad mood. Forgot that you’re people. I’ll take that.”

Imladris snorted. “I doubt this will be the end of it all,” she said. “The war...the Dales are in chaos, Tevinter’s been funding raiders in the Free Marches and along the Storm Coast, and I doubt the Qunari are just sitting there in Par Vollen. Once we seal the Breach, we’ll have the Chantry to reckon with.”

Cassandra said, “Once we seal the Breach, the Chantry would not dare touch you. Or they will have me to reckon with.” Imladris smiled at her tightly. They did not get along, the two of them, and she consciously avoided her and the soldiers’ camp. Nothing good came out of giving a human a sword, especially when they were a religious fundamentalist. But Cassandra was honorable at least. She would not throw her to the Chantry. She would fight for her to have a trial. Now, of course she could not ensure the trial would be fair, but Imladris appreciated the thought.

“Quite,” Imladris said. She resisted the urge to twist behind her, to roll her eyes at Varric. When they reached the village proper though, she heard him sneeze explosively.

“Fuck,” Varric said foggily. “Anybody else feel something weird?” Then, sharply, the landscape froze, stretched, and Solas and Imladris both threw a barrier up before their forces as a sick green light crawled out of a sudden tear in the landscape. In a blink it was gone, and the trees continued to sway in the light spring breeze, the birds chirruped as if nothing had happened. “The fuck was that?”

“It was a rift,” Solas said, lowering his staff, “but unlikely anything I have seen before.” He looked distinctly nettled. “It was as if it were disrupting time itself, but that should not be possible. With the Veil sundering the Fade from our reality, this earth is not so malleable.”

“Malleable?” Iron Bull said faintly, then cleared his throat gruffly. “Um, ha, do you mean it was doing that weird Fade-shifty-thing here?”

Solas’ hand was glowing the same Fade-rift green. He sketched a quick axis in the air, and then a few sigils. Imladris, for all her training, only recognized some of them: that one tested barometric pressure, the other recorded ambient magic within the landscape itself, and the Kirkwall seal only flashed if blood magic was afoot. It shone a deep, shining crimson. Solas frowned. “That should not--blood magic and Fade magic are mutually incompatible. If I could activate more of those instruments, perhaps--”

“Perhaps,” Vivienne called, perfectly side-saddle in her own Orlesian Courser, “the head of the army is not the best place to experiment with a fluctuation in the Veil, my dear.”

Solas let one, short irritated gust out through his nose, like an irritated halla. She spoke before he could: “Perhaps the Grand Enchanter has answers for us. Let’s go.”

Varric pushed his horse up ahead. He wiped his nose.“Why do I feel like things are about to spiral out of control?”

Imladris spurred her horse on and they continued into the village thoroughfare. There was a palpable tension quite literally crackling in the air. She had never seen so many anxious mages, ready for a fight, in one place. It was remarkable. The villagers looked relieved to see them. Imladris’ lips thinned. The mages had clearly outstayed their welcome, and they knew it.

An honor guard of exhausted-looking Knight-Enchanters from the Ferelden Circle--how had they managed to escape the Chantry, Imladris wondered--greeted them. A few of them started when they saw her: not just because of the scars, not just because she was an elf, not just because the people were crying her across Thedas the Herald of Andraste. “You may have met my late sister,” she finally snapped at one woman, who wouldn’t stop staring.

“Oh,” the mage said. “Yes. Sorry. I didn’t realize she had any family left. In the Circle, we heard that they’d all been killed, ages ago.”

Imladris closed her eyes and turned away and kept walking. No, she thought, just everyone over the age of majority. Anyone who knew how to run a town, a militia, a hunt. Especially those who still spoke Sindarin Elvhen. But the Dread Wolf let the elders die so the children could flourish. Was this what she was? Flourishing?

Grand Enchanter Fiona had taken over the Gull & the Lantern as the basis of her operation. Imladris marvelled as the tidy camp as they processed through the village towards the pub. She had never seen so many mages dressed for battle, from teenagers barely past their Harrowing to grim elders in ancient robes. All had the same look of fear. They were losing--they thought they were losing. But she recognized hopeless determination, and entering the pub, she saw Fiona Circle-Breaker and that same fire in her worn face. Imladris bowed her head.

What could she say to this woman, who had been born a slave and raised her son to be king? Fiona had been agitating for the People, both elves and mages and all those enslaved, since Imladris’ own father was a child. She had grown up reading her manifestos, smuggling out of the Circle and circulated throughout Thedas. While Fiona had never been given permission to leave the White Spire for the Arlathvhen, others had given her speeches. Clan Lavellan could have done nothing, without Fiona showing it could be done--that one could organize resistance against the Chantry, that humans could be emboldened to defend elves and dwarves, that even the nobility could be pressured to take a principled stance.

Breaking the silence, Fiona said, “Welcome, agents of the Inquisition.” Her eyes rested on Imladris’ face, took in the wreckage of the scars, the vallaslin. She tensed. “What brings you to Redcliffe, with one of the People, no less? Divine Justinia--may she rest in the Maker’s bosom, of course--did not generally employ elves.” Cassandra made a noise. Vivienne stepped on her. Fiona’s eyes lit on her. “Oh, First Enchanter Vivienne. How good of you to join your people, at long last. I’m surprised the templars let you go unleashed!”

“Grand Enchanter Fiona,” Vivienne said, voice dripping with condescension. “You’ve aged since I saw you. Have you been sleeping? Dreams keeping you awake? How have you been coping, without your little tantrips binding you from the Fade?”

Fiona laughed a little and turned away. “Winning a war means the occasional sleepless night, Enchanter.” She passed a hand through her graying hair and smiled ruefully. “I suppose you are here to ask about the Breach. I have long been an advocate for peace, Seeker, for all my reputation for violence. Peace on equality’s term. I would not have done anything to hurt the Divine and leave my people so exposed. And those who have agitated for conquest--we have pushed them out of the fold.”

“The apostates,” Solas said, “which you left to ravage the countryside--for the Dalish to clean up. And if they harried the templars, and made their movements through the Hinterlands so much more difficult--that is just a lucky consequence, isn’t it.”

Fiona glared at him. Imladris cleared her throat. “Grand Enchanter, we aren’t here to make arrests,” she said, eying Cassandra. Cassandra harrumphed and looked away. “And the Inquisition is led by the Left and Right Hands of the Divine, with your own Cullen Rutherford directing its army. And the Chantry has not quite decided if we are all collectively heretics, or if it is just me.” She smiled thinly, scar tissue pulling at the edge of her lips. “I am Imladris Ashalla’s daughter, First of Clan Lavellan.” She held up her hand. “I am the sole survivor of the attack on the Conclave. After the explosion, I found myself in the Fade, and escaped through a rift with this mark within my hand. I do not know how it happened. But the Breach threatens us all, and this mark is the only thing that has proven effective against the rifts. We come proposing an alliance--the Chantry will tell the templars to stand down while we work to restore the Veil.”

Fiona regarded her. “First Lavellan. The one the humans call the Herald of Andraste. Even some of our people have lost their heads and declared you ‘dirthal Mythallin’.”

“What?” Sera whispered. “What’d she say?”

“Herald of Mythal, Buttercup,” Varric whispered back. “Really, you should be better at this than I am.” Then he sneezed, and the world twisted and flashed green for one rough second, and before Imladris could charge her staff it was back to normal. Only Solas looked equally puzzled, rubbing his forehead with a frown. Then they heard the heavy trod of footsteps on stairs. Imladris looked up. Three men in Tevinter dress descended, one old, another decidedly sickly, and the last barely restraining anger under his curled moustache. The Inquisition tensed, and shame rapidly acrossed across Fiona’s face before she sighed and steeled her expression. Imladris thought: hopeless determination. Both she and Solas had pulled out their staffs, and Cassandra had her hand on her sword hilt. Sera had vanished. Imladris glanced behind her. Iron Bull was sneering. She guessed she was hiding behind him.

“Perhaps,” the oldest of the three said, “we can continue this discussion without the show of force, Inquisition? You have nothing to fear here.”

Fiona said, “May I introduce our ally, Magister Gereon Alexius of the Venatori? And his son and heir Felix, and apprentice the Altus Dorian, of House Pavus.”

The altus made a flamboyant Orlesian-style courtesy. “Charmed, I’m sure,” he said. He took in the group and raised an eyebrow. “Fascinating. So you’re the elf that survived the Conclave.”

The magister sent him a warning look, and Dorian made a face, and stepped back to allow Alexius to take center stage. Behind his back, his eyes’ sought Imladris, and when he was sure he had her attention, he tapped his face with his hand very casually--but pressed in the sign of Dread Wolf, middle and ring finger pressed to his thumb, ears up. Imladris blinked: what the fuck.

“You see, I’m afraid you’ve come too late,” Alexius said. He smirked to himself, at some private joke. “The rebel mages of Orlais and Ferelden had long sought aid in fighting off both your templars and this Breach, and we were quick to answer. The Broken Circle is now allied, officially, as vassals of the Venatori of the Imperium Anciens. And so any possible negotiations regarding the Breach must go through me, rather than the Grand Enchanter.”

Fiona looked unsettled. She leaned against the table behind her, holding her head. “Excuse me, I-I am feeling suddenly faint.” Everyone’s attention was drawn to the Enchanter, who was now stemming a nosebleed. Vivienne sighed and pulled out a handkerchief. The magister’s son stepped over to take it from her, but tripped, and Imladris caught him as he fell. He slipped something into her pocket and gave her a significant look as she helped him onto his feet.

“Thank you, friend,” he murmured, in Dalish.

Baffled, angry, Imladris looked at Fiona. “You allied with Tevinter?” she said. “That makes absolutely no sense. You--we call you the Breaker of Chains, you’re Fiona Circle-Breaker, how could you ever work with slavers? You said you’d rather die--what’s going on here?” But Fiona was obviously unwell. The handkerchief was rapidly turning red, and her aides quickly ushered her to a chair.

Alexius sighed theatrically. “Well, what do you expect? You people abandoned your mages, and hunted them like animals. We of the Venatori saw an opportunity to bring them to the fold. Perhaps we can discuss how best we will seal the Breach later?” A cold light glinted in his eyes. He looked far too pleased with himself. “Myself, I’m curious about your hand.” He pulled out an amulet, engraved with strange sigils that looked almost elvhen, radiating a sickly red light.

“Father, no!” Felix shouted. “Dorian, do something!”

Alexius threw the amulet into the air and began intoning a spell, and Dorian jumped forward and grabbed Imladris, and a horrible green flash blinded them both and they were thrown back as again, the world twisted sharply behind her sinuses, in her gut, and she gagged as slowly the light began to fade. Imladris shoved him off of her and looked around wildly. The room was empty--the walls had been blown out, though a few sticks of furniture were scattered here and there. She gaped up at the sky. It was as if the Fade itself had descended through the Breach.

“Fenhedhis,” she hissed. “What the fuck happened?” She whirled around and pointed the blade at the end of her staff to Dorian’s throat. “What did you do?”

He put his hands up. “Er. Saved your life, I think. I hope.”

“Start talking. Now.”

* * *

The gods were coming back, that was what this Tevinter slaveowner was saying. The old bad gods, who demanded blood sacrifice, were whispering again, and they had chosen as their Prophet the Elder One, an ancient priest named Corypheus, who had breached the Maker’s City and loosed the Blight upon the world. Only the shemlem, Imladris thought incredulously, would be excited about the man who brought the end up the world coming back again.

“He’s the High Priest of Dumat,” Dorian said, “and he says he is seeking the last dead whispers of the old gods. That he entered the City and it was empty, so he’s going to bring the Fade back into the realm of men and reshape the world as it was meant to be, with himself as our Supreme God and the Old Gods as his viziers. That amulet was supposed to be a gift for him. Alexius and I had been studying the lack of linearity of time beyond the Veil, and that was our catalyst for replicating the mutability effect--”

“So that weird distortion we saw in Redcliffe, that was you?” Imladris interrupted.

Dorian looked abashed. “Well, yes. In most possible futures you kept beating us to Fiona, but after a

couple singularities, we realized we could win with a combination of a blood-compulsion spell on the Grand Enchanter herself and a time-distortion spell set at the gate.” He seemed inordinately proud of himself. “Now, I’m not really a fan of blood magic, but it’s true that one’s own blood makes the most powerful compulsions--”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Imladris said. “Quit babbling, and get to the point: what the fuck does this Corypheus’ want? Why does he want Fiona? What in this Blight-infested world does this have to do with me?”

Dorian started and attempted to scoot away. She pressed her staff blade a little closer against his neck. He was sweating. She glared. “Well, it’s your mark. He wants it. You interrupted some sort of--ritual sacrifice at the Conclave. It was supposed to bring down the Veil. But it didn’t work. So he wants you, and that thing on your hand. To destroy this world, and restore what should’ve been. What Tevinter should’ve been. And so I showed up to stop that.”

“What,” Imladris said flatly.

“I’m on your side,” Dorian said. “I swear. That’s why I saved your life, if you remember. Not a big fan 

of ancient magistri coming screaming out of Grey Warden prisons either, I have to say. Or massive amounts of blood sacrifice. It’s all very messy, you see. Blood does stick in the carpet, and the slaves get miffed if you make them clean it up too often. And while I’d truly love to help bring about a slave rebellion, I’d like it to actually win, you know?”

What was it that Solas said? Life was a series of catastrophes, one after the other? And Varric had told her everything that happened to her was weird. She was inclined to agree. She dropped her staff blade from his throat to his stomach. He was singing so prettily, but threatening to torture was so much fun.

“I know Leto,” Dorian said hastily. “Fenris. Whatever he’s calling himself now. And you, you’re from Clan Lavellan, aren’t you? I know someone from Lavellan, I met him in Seheron. Revas Baranduillen. He told me to make this sign,” and Dorian made the sign of the Dread Wolf at her again, “if I ran into a Dalish and needed help getting out of trouble. We worked together with Maevaris, with the Lucerni. Though don’t tell Alexius that, Felix and I have been trying to mitigate the damage he’s doing. The Venatori don’t have official approval of the Imperium, you know. They don’t like any distraction from the war with the Qun. And if we manage to help a couple slaves escape on the way? Well…” He shrugged, as elegantly as one could with a blade pressed to their belly.

“You’re making absolutely no sense,” Imladris informed him. A tinge of hysteria crept up her throat. “You’re telling me you--an altus, of House Pavus--are working with my brother, Fenris, and the only decent woman of the whole Magisterium to quietly free slaves while you sabotage an ancient Tevinter magister’s efforts at erasing the whole world and setting himself up as some--Maker-equivalent, but you still were experimenting wholeheartedly on this time-amulet--”

“Yes, it is a lot,” Dorian admitted, “I find it all quite overwhelming too. Mostly I try not to think about it! And drink. A lot. My liberation is bound up with your liberation and all that, if a crazed Tevene artifact shows up trying to conquer the whole world and sacrifice whole cities again, I think I ought to try to stop that, don’t you?”

Imladris blinked. “Yes,” she said faintly, and then she cleared her throat.

“I do like to surprise people’s worst expectations,” Dorian said happily. “Don’t tell anyone, though. They’ll kill me terribly, and I for one want to meet the Maker with my dick intact.”

“We only mutilate rapists,” Imladris informed him drily. She switched her staff to her other hand and offered him a hand up. He took it, and she helped him to his feet. “How did you meet my brother?” He never spoke of his time in Tevinter. Sometimes he would mention Seheron. But when the Lucerni and the Tevinter Resistance was brought up, he would leave the room, and it had taken years to get him to put down his drink.

Dorian paused. For the first time shame crossed his face. “He wouldn’t want you to know,” he said. “Forgive me. It’s not my story to tell.” And that was the moment where Imladris realized he was right, she believed him, and in this at least she could trust him: he was not actively working against her. He had saved her life, and she would repay the favor.

“So, where are we, then?” she asked. “You said the amulet works with time--what is this place?”

Dorian visibly relaxed. He smiled slightly. “Well, where else can we be? We’re in the future. Perhaps a year forward, judging by what I know of Alexius’ magic. Without my help, he can’t push you back so much you’d be erased from all existence! Which was the original plan, and didn’t work, we just kept getting weirder and weirder versions of the Inquisition. As if your group isn’t bizarre enough. He’s not good at moving back, anyway. Always worrying too much about the future. Felix keeps him planted forward. You need to be more mutable, to work with Fade magic. This is that pub, I think. Though the decor hasn’t much improved. Fereldens.” Imladris almost laughed, but she made it a rule to glower at any nobleman who tried to charm her. She summoned her most fearsome stare, and Dorian quailed. He cleared his throat. “Well. Anyway. Now what?”

“Indeed.” They stepped over the ruins of the wall. Imladris looked up and started. The world had been 

torn asunder. The air was soupy, as if there were a humid storm inching across the sea, and the light was green like a tornado warning. She watched her shadow get up from the ground and attempt to assert itself, and then melt away again. Some spirit, trying to gain her form. “You’d think they’d be stronger,” she said, “since the Fade’s been brought into our world.”

Dorian looked askance. “Can’t you hear it? It’s the lyrium. The red kind. It keeps them away. Listen.” He pointed to an abrupt red outcropping, what Imladris had at first assumed was just bloodstained rock. “The Elder One uses it to power his spells, the Venatori have been encouraging everyone to use it. It’s sick lyrium, I think. Don’t ask me how. But it sings.” She approached it, Dorian following at a distance. The red was growing out of the Redcliffe bedrock like a fungus. A hissing sound emanating from it, which only grew louder as they came closer. It vibrated slightly, and Imladris rubbed her forehead, feeling it pull at her. She stepped back, knocking into Dorian.

“I’ve never seen lyrium like this,” she said, “except at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

“Yes...makes you feel sick, doesn’t it?” Dorian said. He did look a little queasy. “Might I suggest we get a  move on? Away from this. It pulls at your core, the red stuff. I don’t like it.”

“No,” Imlaris said. “But I wonder if it’s native to the Fade, if it first appeared at the Breach….” She hesitated, strangely drawn to the red, and then shook her head and pulled away. She had not survived forty and more years as a mage to let weird lyrium tempt her. “We need to find out what happened to the Inquisition, and we need that amulet.” She pointed with her chin to the castle ahead, surrounded by strange floating rocks and what looked like a fragment of a monumental statue to Andraste. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Leliana’s plan had been for them to sneak into Redcliffe through the sewers, and so Imladris elected to follow it. The red lyrium made it hard to think. Dorian had to stop halfway up the pipes to stop a nosebleed, and Imladris could feel a migraine build up in her sinuses. As always, the path through the pipes was fetid, and they took turns casting barrier to keep their clothes from getting soaked in the filth. To her surprise, Dorian barely complained, focusing on his nosebleed instead, and rambling theories about the red lyrium. He was clearly a nervous talker. She ignored him, focused only on keeping her footing sure as they climbed. She recognized the original foundations as elvhen, pre-Andrastian, but likely dating from after the fall of Arlathan from the latticework of the bricks. Pre-Arlathan brickwork was rare; what had survived the ravages of time and pillage looked too delicate to support the massive fortifications they had extrapolated from tales and examination of soil disruption. Mythal ghilana’ma, she thought: Mythal guide me. May the Dread Wolf never hear my steps.

She forced Dorian to stop when they found a maintenance tunnel that went straight up into the 

dungeons of the castle; she remembered it from Leliana’s maps. “Fenedhis,” she said, staring up. It was at least a forty-foot climb, wedging oneself in the tunnel and hoisting oneself up by each handgrab. She missed Solas suddenly, who was always ready with the steadiest barrier spell she had ever seen cast, and of course Sera would wriggle right up, Cassandra ready to hold them all if they fell. She almost laughed aloud at the idea of Vivienne trudging through the mud with them, sniping at Dorian, though of course she had faced down the Fallow Mire relatively well. Iron Bull, of course, would get his horns stuck. 

She took a deep breath. “Do you think they’re still alive?” she asked quietly.

Dorian looked at her sympathetically. “Well...if we’re lucky, it won’t matter, we’ll just grab the amulet and redo the spell. It’s better not to think about the alternatives. Not get attached.”

“Right,” Imladris said. She gave him a sardonic look, and pointed up. “You first.”

Dorian held his hands up and wiggled his fingers. They were stained with his own blood, from that terrible nosebleed the lyrium had caused. “What a sight I’ll be,” he drawled. “Covered in my own blood and shit on my shoes, what would my father say?”

He brought up his father quite often. Imladris really did not care. After a beat, she said, “Right. I’ll go first, then. This sign,” she made the Dread Wolf gesture again, “means I need a barrier, and quick. If we get spotted immediately our best bet is to kill as many as we can, as quietly as we can, and get back through the sewers. Rather than unpack your issues with your father.”

“And here I thought you brought me for the charm of my presence,” Dorian grumbled, but he was completely silent as they struggled upward in that dark cramped hole, as crablike they hauled themselves up by grime-covered foothold. He did not even say anything when, three-fourths of the way up, Imladris was struck by the sudden terror that they would never reach the way out, this was like the dark little carcer they had stuck her in back in Val Royeaux, the one for the apostates. She clutched the stone, hands and feet curling around each jutting rock, there was a reason elves went barefoot, it made it easier to climb, focus on sensible thoughts, and gradually the panic passed and she kept moving up. She was grateful for the sound of Dorian’s breathing in the dark. It drowned out the hum of the red lyrium threading through the old fortification.

Imladris hit her head at the top but did not cry out. Dorian, though, nearly slipped when he grabbed at her foot. She looked down; his face was illuminated by the sick light of the lyrium. He looked terrified. She pressed her lips into the closest approximation of a smile she could manage. Whatever it looked like, it worked. Dorian looked a little amused. Carefully, legs aching from the froglike squat she had been climbing in, she pushed the flagstone up. Greenish light filtered in. Carefully, Imladris moved the flagstone away and clambered out, and pulled Dorian up with her. They had made it into the lower dungeons of the castle. Clearly the Tevinter Venatori had won. Cells lined the walls, and in one of them an Inquisition scout uniform stretched across a man-sized burst of red lyrium. It gave off its own heat, warm as fresh blood. Dorian saw it and frowned. “Do you think--” but a guard in Venatori uniform burst in, and yelled at them in Tevene. 

“Vishante kaffas!” Dorian yelled back, and electrocuted him quickly.

“I was hoping we would move quietly,” Imladris said in an undertone.

Dorian shrugged. “If Alexius has been coordinating security, that would be the only guard for this hall. He prefers to keep prisoners so incapacitated they wouldn’t try to escape.”

“Efficient.”

“That’s the Tevinter way.” With that, they whispered out of the dungeon, and began to explore. Despite herself, and the whole end of the world, she was beginning to find Dorian charming--and she would pay to be a fly in the room where he and Fenris had been stuck together. She had met Fenris through Revas, who had organized the Friendly Homes as a stop for refugees fleeing Tevinter slavery. She could not imagine the sour, deeply traumatized boy handling Dorian’s relentless bonhomie well--but of course she could not have imagined he would take up with a deshyr of the Merchants’ Guild either, and help throw Kirkwall into so much turmoil, and become so good at hunting slavers and coordinating escape routes either. If they survived this, Imladris promised herself, she would ask how they met. She might even buy him a drink.

Passing by a room, Imladris heard a man’s clear voice, singing a lullaby: “ Tel'enara bellana bana'vhenadahl, sethen'a ir san'shiral, mala tel'halani vora'nadas san banal'him emma abel revas. Ir tela'ena glandival, vir amin tel'hanin. Ir tela las ir Fen halam, vir am'tela'elvahen.”

A girl’s voice, familiar, sulky, sickly: “Sing it in real words next.”

Imladris’ heart swelled. Carefully she stepped up to the door and looked through the keyhole, Dorian guarding her back. The room was empty but for the cells, and in the cells she knew, though she could not see them, were at least two of her companions. “Inquisition,” she whispered at Dorian. “Let’s go.”

As the door creaked, Solas called out sharply, “Is someone there?”  The two stepped into the room. There was a swaddled corpse, face hidden by the shroud, on a table pushed up against the wall, and a Scavenger’s Daughter leaning against it. Imladris’ breathing hitched, but she pushed past it, and stepped up to the cell. Both elves were there, Sera in worse shape than Solas, with a black eye and her wrists bound. Solas looked gaunt, more than usual, but stood tall on his feet, arms crossed and defiant. He was doing his best to block the girl from view. He started violently when he saw them, and his hands spasmed to reveal a badly-cut stone knife.

“You’re alive,” he said wonderingly. “But we saw you die!”

Sera took it less well. She started chanting, “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” voice rising to a wail and Solas spun around quickly and kneeled next to her, grabbing at her shoulder.

“Sera, look at me,” he said. “Do not fall prey to panic now. Not after all this. Sera, _look at me_.”  
“She can’t be here, she can’t be here,” she chanted, “she’s dead and they don’t come back, Solas you told me they don’t come back--”

Two nephews, a niece, and two young daughters had not prepared her for explaining that she was not in fact dead, but translocated in time. She had dealt with night terrors, with tantrums, with flashbacks and panic attacks and weird magic and spirits snapping into demons. She had grabbed her baby and run when a visiting mage turned out to be an abomination, and rocked her to sleep afterward. This, however, was new. Imladris did not know what to say. Nothing about what happened was reassuring. 

Dorian, though, jumped in. He said testily, “Rumors of our demise are greatly exaggerated, I’m afraid. Alexius was using time magic to manipulate the rebel mages into joining him, I disrupted the spell because I find the whole Tevinter supremacist movement distasteful, and we got sent a year into the future. Which hasn’t been going well, it seems. Not dead, not demons, just--would you call this lucky? I suppose this counts as lucky.”

Sera stopped shaking. Solas turned away from her. “Can you reverse the process?” he said, desperation obvious. “You could return and obviate the events of the last year! It may not be too late!” He looked elated. “If you can undo this, they can all be saved. It may not be too late.” He stumbled as he pushed himself up. Imladris hurried forward to catch him. He was so terribly thin, and he rested his head against hers for a beat before pulling away.

“What happened to you? Where is everyone?” she asked. Solas was still holding onto her arm. “How long has it been?”

He let go of her arm and half-turned to help Sera up. Sera said haltingly, “The day you died...I ran out of arrows making them pay. Then it didn’t matter anymore. The demons, and gods--and I just got a bow. I want them to hurt. I’ll friggin’ die, spittin’ in their faces.”

“The Elder One,” Solas said. “Corypheus. The Inquisition managed to hold Ferelden, with help from Alistair and what remained of the rebel mages once the Venatori were finished with them. But we were overwhelmed when Orlais fell. He enlisted a demon army, I did not have the time to find out how--and assassinated both the Empress Celene and the Grand Duke Gaspard at their peace talks. You must find a way to stop him. If we can return you to the past. You know  _ nothing _ of this world. It is far worse than you understand. This world is an abomination. It must never come to pass. If there is any hope left, if there is any way to save them--my life is yours. What remains of it.”

Imladris swallowed, hard. “And the Free Marches?” she said. “Did they get that far? Do you know what happened to my clan?” There was no way her brother would stay away. And if her brother went charging for revenge, the rest would be soon to follow.

Sera said, “I tried. Know that. I really friggin’ tried. Got in contact with a couple Jennys from Orzammar, and we got the kids out, some of them--”

“Orzammar fell,” Solas said heavily. “And with them, this world’s last chance of survival. Do not concern yourself with what this world has suffered. If you act swiftly, it will be as if this never happened, and we will not have suffered. So you must act swiftly. You have no time for grief.” He stepped forward. “Please. We are dying. The red has set in like a cancer. All you can do is find that amulet and reverse the process. There is no other way.”

Her whole world had died then, beset by darkspawn and Tevinter supremacists. One year had made all the difference: let that be a lesson, Imladris thought dimly, to all those who said one person could not make a difference. She let loose one sharp breath and slapped away the hand Dorian was trying to put on her shoulder.

“Then let’s go,” she said. “We’ve wasted enough time.” She nodded at Dorian. “Take us to Alexius, then. We need that amulet.”

* * *

Sera was dying and only rage seemed to be pushing Solas unwaveringly along as they slaughtered their way up towards the arl’s hall, where of course Alexius would be waiting for them. Her companions and captors of the past year were all dead. The Free Marches were a red lyrium wasteland, and her children had died during the darkspawn invasion of Orzammar. She hoped they were dead. She knew what the darkspawn did to girls, to women. Mathalin would be almost fourteen now.

Grief rocked her like the tide after two weeks at sea: peculiar but familiar, rising up to meet her as she slithered through the corridors. The lyrium pulsed, reminding her of blood running from a dying varterral, the last guardians of the Elvhen. She remembered the few that had patrolled the woods when she was a child, but that did not bear thinking about. Gadden told her lyrium had a song, and that the blue had its own draw for the Children of the Stone, though not quite addictive. It felt like home, he said, finding a vein was like stepping through the ancient wards into her favorite part of the elvhen city they had reclaimed. This lyrium, though, felt like a fever, and its song felt like the edge of a shriek. It got her back up. It reminded her of distant scream, catching enough to know someone was in distress, but not enough to locate, not enough to help. She was grinding her teeth, Imladris realized suddenly, and she forced herself to stop.

“How close are we?” she whispered.

“How would I know?” Dorian stage-whispered back. Everything with him was a drama. Or a farce. “I’ve never been to Ferelden.”

Solas was unamused. “Left,” he stated shortly. “They’re keeping Leliana in the Upper Chamber. And I do not believe they have broken her yet.”

“Else they would’ve taken you,” Sera said. “They said you were next.”  
“Thank you for reminding me, Sera,” Solas said. “It has been something to look forward to.”

“Just trying to be helpful. That’s me. Great distraction. Too bad they took my bees. That would’ve been a surprise, for when they take you. Maybe it’d mean they’d let you last longer. And then I get to last longer.” Sera snorted. “More flesh for the lyrium, I guess.”

“A quick death is certainly too good for me,” Solas said agreeably.

“You two have been in that cell for a bit, haven’t you?” Dorian asked.

“How can you tell?”

Yes, Imladris thought: this was certainly turning into a farce. They turned a corner and Solas of all people was the first with his knife cutting between helmet and plate, slitting a Venatori soldier’s throat before he could gasp, and Sera was almost as quick, giggling to herself. “Finally,” she said. “Thank the Maker. Thought they’d just leave me to gibber in the darkness. When willows wail wolf wassail shit. Much better.” Happily, she drew her arrows out of a man’s corpse. They made a slick sliding sound, exiting his flesh. Andruil’s blessing had been upon them: they had found their weapons on a stand in a stairway. Solas still preferred to use his hands. He did not look like he was capable of much, mana-wise. He moved fast, sloping, using magic only when it was clear he could not kill a guard quickly. He was dying: if he were losing his ability to manipulate the Fade, even with the Veil in tatters, he did not have much time left. But Imladris moved ahead and kept them going, ahead of those thoughts.

They then entered a room just in time to watch a woman strangle a man with her legs: a wasted Sister Nightingale, hanging from her wrists. Imladris hurried to the corpse, took the keys, and released her from her shackles.

“Maker, is it already over?” Leliana said. “The dead have risen, and You have sent your Herald.”

“I’m afraid it’s less exciting than that,” piped in Dorian, from the doorway. “Time magic, never dead after all, just pushed forward, here we are. Oh, and I’m one of the good guys.”

“That last point is debatable,” Imladris said. “But the gist of it is correct. Alexius was using time magic to manipulate the rebel mages into joining the Venatori. Dorian Pavus--the walking moustache--disrupted the spell. And here we are.”

But Leliana was turning away, taking in Solas, Sera. “The others? Are you all that remains? Did Varric make it to Khal-Shirok?”

Solas looked wretched. “I do not know, and I have not been able to find Vivienne in her dreams. If he did, he did it alone. I assume both the Enchanter and the Bull fell in the Deep Roads.”

“Cassandra?”

“It was quick,” he said. “We did not let the darkspawn take her.”

Leliana rocked back, and then rolled her shoulders with a painful crack. “No matter.” She turned, finally, to Imladris. Her cheeks had hollowed, and her eyes had sunk deep into her skull. Someone had shaved her head, and done a bad job of it: tufts of ginger fluff grew haphazardly, like bits of gold dust. “You said Alexius used a time spell on you. Can you reverse it? The Maker shows His hand in the strangest of ways.”

“He says he can,” Imladris gestured at Dorian. “He says Alexius should have the amulet he used as a foci.”

“Should,” repeated Leliana. “And what if he doesn’t?”

They all looked at her expectantly, and she bristled. “Then we kill him and get out of here. Find whoever has survived. Because there must be survivors. You do not conquer a whole world just to kill them all. Find Those-Beyond-The-Sea, if we must. Keep moving. And if,” she faltered for a second, but steeled herself, “if this Elder One has pulled the Fade into our world, then that means the world is more mutable. We can change it. As we still breathe, we can still change. We can fight.”

The world could not end, there was always life living, even lyrium sang, this corrupt castle had its own sick heartbeat. She lead them onwards, feet quiet on cobbles that felt warm with blood reverberating up the arch of her foot and into the ache of her shoulder, which she had dislocated a week ago and a year ago all at the same time. The mark throbbed in time with the ache of her shoulder which pulsed like the red threading itself into the Redcliffe rock, the walls breathed in time with her, the world was definitely changed. The Fade was here, interwoven or rudely interjected, shifting bricks behind them and then suddenly tripping them, Solas walked straight through a door that only tried to stop Dorian, and eventually they made it to the grand staircase, which would lead to the Arl’s Hall. Alexius was waiting. Her companions, sick and dying, waited for her to mount the stairway first. Was she leading them to their deaths? If all went well, she would bring them back alive: but they would not remember this. It would be like a bad dream.

Taking a deep breath, air tasting like blood and salt, Imladris pushed open the door and strode inside, pretending a boldness she did not feel. Fly straight and never waver. She said, “I am here. We’ve killed most of your men, Alexius. Give me your amulet and I’ll kill you faster too.” The world was not dead. She would bring it back alive.

They fell, Alexius and Leliana and Solas and Sera too, Sera was the last, beating them with her bow, screaming, and though she moved to help them Dorian took her by the hand, yelling, “It’s not real, not now, let’s go!” and they stumbled wild, her fighting him, back into the shocked tavern, and Cassandra had Dorian knocked unconscious and Varric three bolts pinning Alexius’ hand to a wooden column before she had gotten herself up, and Iron Bull was already there looming in front of her, her frontline bodyguard. Someone was screaming. Was it her? No, the Inquisition soldiers and the mages were trying to fight off the Tevinter soldiers, the venatori. Battle clanged around her, muted in her dislocation. Familiar magic washed over her, made stray arrows and sword-blows bounce off: the familiar mossy feel of Solas’s magic, like sinking into a nap on a river rock, and Vivienne’s cooler, sharper electric field.

“Mythal’enaste,” she said. Shakily she dragged herself to her feet, and Sera was there suddenly, steadying her, a dagger in her free hand. “The Vint did it.  _ It worked _ .”

“You okay, boss?” Iron Bull asked. Her laugh was a resounding no.


	9. Catabasis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the end of the Hinterlands arc. Things get fun from here, I promise.

A tub large enough for two, not that anyone would join her, and a sigil to keep the water warm: Imladris sunk into the copper vessel, her own catalyst, and dropped maybe a third of a bottle of embrium oil Vivienne sent to her quarters. She supposed it was Vivienne’s way of telling her she smelled; at least she had not said anything about halla. It was concern wrapped in an insult, or an insult wrapped around concern: either way, it loosened a tough muscle in her neck and soothed the mark. A fire crackled in the hearth of her little shack, and the runes of the shard Blackwall had found in the Storm Coast whispered to themselves, almost comfortingly. Each of the mages were examining them, even Dorian. She owed him, after all, however galling it was to owe a Vint anything: but he knew Fenris, he met her brother under unpleasant circumstances, he was working with Maevaris and that, she had to admit, redeemed him. And he was funny. Out of all the people to coast through the end of the world with, he had not been the worst.

Woodsmoke drifting, she scrubbed the grime of the past day and the past year, the blood of people who had never quite existed. Imladris had never had much patience for quantum questions; she had studied archaeology, not philosophy, at the University of Orlais. She had wanted to sink her roots into the traces that were left and flower. There was never much time for speculation when you were fighting a war. Her friend Mouse had been one to stare up at the stars and wonder about questions of knowledge and belief while on a stakeout. She couldn’t. She imagined him and Deshanna at the worn wooden table at the temple of June in the Friendly Homes, working on a map--the caverns Cadash had dug out centuries ago, lost to the Blight, or the sewers that netted their way under the Wycome proper. If she walked in and said she had seen the future and the world’s survival all relied on her, what would they say? Deshanna would tell her that’s not how history worked. The Great Men of History was Orlesian bullshit, she would declare, pointing at her with her pencil. Mouse would lean on the table, grinning, and counter, well, one person can save another person’s life, whose quick-thinking could save a whole clan, isn’t that what happened to them? Baranduin Lavellan saving his mother’s life from bandits, which opened up the Rivaini settlement to the clan when the Duke of Wycombe came to burn out the Friendly Homes. Yes, Deshanna would say, clearly: that’s two people, Mouse, and the whole of their families behind them. Not one person.

Imladris hugged herself and sunk deeper into the water. She missed home. At this hour, the children would be crashing in, Malika screeching at her brother Azadi while her brother sighed and ordered them all into the kitchen, why were they always late, he had never enjoyed lessons enough to linger with Keeper, Samahl would sneaking on mouse-feet (just like his father) upstairs to get to the bowl of peaches that someone always left on her desk and she never ate, because who could remember to eat when there was work to be done and Samahl loved peaches, she would never see him if she didn’t bribe him, but he was almost a man now, it was normal to be a bit distant from your aunt. Her daughters would hurry straight to their room, Mathalin to her father’s gitar if the day were a bad one, Mirwen to her favorite book that she always had to make her leave because if she didn’t, she would try to read through all her lessons and she needed to learn to give the appearance of actively listening to her teachers, it didn’t matter that she was surprisingly (frighteningly) good at multitasking for a five-year-old. Samahl would trade her gossip for gossip, eating peaches while the sun came down and Revas crashed around in the kitchen downstairs until Olivine hollered at everyone to  _ shut up _ , they were disrupting the creative process.

The noise, the chaos, the overlapping lives of too many people in too-small of a house, everyone constantly dodging in and out of rooms and in each other’s ways, had helped on the bad days. Someone was always playing music--Mathalin or Revas, most days. Someone was always yelling at someone in the kitchen, be it Rope about Azadi drinking all the coffee she stole from a caravan coming from Seheron, or Gadden losing it at Olivine for working on her prints with all her toxic chemicals on the table  _ where we eat, who are you working for, fucking Antoine? What a thing for them to write on my tombstone: poisoned, not by the usual suspects, but by a mad half-elf with delusion of grandeur. _ Imladris rested her neck against the cool metal of the tub and wished for Mahanon’s low voice, entering the room when the children were finally asleep, familiar hands working through the tangles in her hair, the knots in her neck and back. Some desires could not be borne. She swished the water around and sighed, rose before she could sink further into the sadness. If she let herself think more she’d drown.

Aches and pains, pains and aches and old scars learning how to stretch: Imladris pulled on a soft Dalish tunic Clan Alerion had sent, put on the halla necklace her children’s father had given her so long ago, new leggings and new footwraps too. She brushed her hair and pulled it out of her face, and when she looked in the mirror she did not flinch at the scars pulling at her lips. She painted her lips, her eyes, her vallaslin brighter. The worst of the Breach had been closed. Allowing that magic to pass through her had hurt, had felt like they were trying to rip the marrow right out of her bones. But she moved smoothly, on mouse-feet, like her Mouse had taught her. She had been with the Inquisition for a year now, roaming the Mire, the Hinterlands, the stormy coast of Ferelden at their behest, slaughtering demons and repairing the Veil. She had travelled in time and back again. She had never been so long from her family--her time in Val Royeaux did not count. Perhaps they would finally let her go. Did Shartan feel like this, enslaved to Andraste’s shitty military maneuvers? All she did was weigh in during Josephine, Leliana, and Cullen’s arguments. Sweet Sylaise, she wanted to go home. Every time they gave her a moment to think, she missed home so hard it took her breath away.

The night air was brisk and sweet. Spring had arrived. Villagers from both Haven and Redcliffe and Inquisition soldiers mingled freely in snatches of dancing and drinking around the campfires. Imladris was amused to see Minaeve in full Dalish finery, dancing a reel with Seggritt. Iron Bull was sitting on the stairs with a Chantry sister in his lap. She raised an eyebrow while she passed; he grinned back. Down by the lake, which had finally thawed, sat most of the inner circle. Sera was gesticulating madly and crudely, fist up, while Cassandra stared at her doubtfully and Blackwall and Solas of all people roared with laughter. Solas covered his face with both hands as Sera yelled, “And then I told that Dalish shitlicker that Fen’Harel takes it up the arse, so he shouldn’t bitch about his son doing it either, cuz that’s just piety, you know. Good religion. He’s just doing ‘as wolves do.’”

“What?” Cassandra said.

“A euphemism,” Solas said, trying but failing to surpress a slight smirk, “a very old one.”

“Ah,” Cassandra said, “but who’s Fen’Harel?”

“Dunno,” Sera said, “but the Dalish Jennies I met say ‘Fen’Harel take it up the ass’ a lot when they’re angry. Velanna told me it isn’t blasphemy because he’s supposed to like it.”

“Are there...many Dalish legends about the Creators’ sexual proclivities?” Solas asked delicately. “Or does it end at Fen’Harel?”

Imladris sat down next to him. “Clearly you haven’t been to an Arlathvhen in the past two decades, lethallin,” she said. “There’s been a scandal about a song that keeps going the rounds, about the apotheosis of Ghilain’nain--the wolf and the owl thought they were riding the halla, but the halla was riding them to the top, so on and so forth--”

Irritation flashed across Solas’ face, but then he shook his head. “That song has been a scandal since I was hardly older than Sera,” he said, “I thought  _ that _ at least was laid to a proper rest.”

“Oh, Lavellan, what is it?” Blackwall said eagerly. He was clearly drunk. “Sing it!”

“It’s in Elvhen,” she said hastily.

“Oh, come on,” he continued to press, “sing it for us. Translate! Bet you Solas would help you.”

Solas said vaguely, “Some things are lost in translation.” He eased himself up. “I must bid you all good night--Fiona, Vivienne, and I are investigating the stability of the scar the Breach left in the Fade, and I would like to clear the area the Fade overlaps of any residue lest Madame de Fer corrupt whatever curious spirits remain.” His gaze lingered on Imladris. “Fiona would like you to join us.”

“Not you?” she asked.

“I think the victor should have some time to rest on her laurels,” he answered, smiling. “To take a breath while the calm lasts. We still have the Elder One to address. We know not when he will attack. You should enjoy your victories as they come. We do not know how long we have.”

“I’d like to see the ritual preparation,” Imladris said. “I assume Vivienne has seized control of all protocol.”

He was still smiling. For such an odd-looking man, he was breathtaking when he smiled. “She has tried.” He held out a hand to help her up. From the corner of her eye, Imladris noticed Cassandra light up and put a hand over her face to hide a sudden grin. She quirked an eyebrow and took his hand, and was disappointed when he immediately put his hands behind his back once she was on her feet. They walked in step, threading their way through the rejoicing Inquisition soldiers, and Solas was speaking, “Madame de Fer of course reflects the worst of her Circle upbringing, and it is less that she needs shielding from the Fade, but that the Fade needs shielding from  _ her _ . Fiona’s magic is more flexible, and she has worked with spirits before--unsurprising for one of our people, and for one they call ‘the Breaker of Chains.’ She deserves it, and while her warding is not as  _ pretty _ as Vivienne, who has learnt her textbook and replicates it well, it’s certainly more flexible. Do Dalish wards prioritize form over function? I assume, with such diaspora, that each clan has developed its own traditions--”

Imladris shrugged. “We took in many Rivaini Dalish fleeing the Qunari occupation, so our Fade meditations tend to be less...confrontational. I rarely have run across trouble,” she hesitated, she had plenty of trouble the first few years after, don’t think about that, “but my Keeper says it’s because I lack imagination.” Solas snorted. “To which I say, no, I don’t lack imagination, I come in with a purpose and intend to fulfill that purpose, I’m not going to wander off into the Sea of Dreams without a plan like  _ she _ would, if we ever had the time. I teach our children to expect to be surprised, but not to allow themselves to be...enchanted, by what they might find. Keep focused--you have to wake up eventually, after all. Even mages have to milk halla in the morning.”

“True,” Solas said. “Is that what you did, before this? Milk halla?” His tone sounded vaguely disapproving. Imladris was bothered. She had watched him expertly skin and butcher a druffalo with his own well-worn tools, and stitch a not-entirely shabby coat out of a wolfskin. Whatever his origin, wherever he had travelled, he certainly knew how to work with animals.

“No,” she said. “I’d leave that to my nephews, or my niece. I had my rounds in the Friendly Homes and the alienage to make, working with the apprentices, I ran an Elvhen-language night school for the Fereldens who came to us during the Blight--and of course, there was  _ Fen’Harel’s Teeth _ . The magazine,” she clarified. There was no need to talk about the resistance group House Cadash, Clan Lavellan, the Wycombe elves, and the Blight refugees had built against the Orlesian-Chantry aristocracy that had seeped back in when the Duchess of Wycombe married her daughter to Antoine of Jader, the youngest son of Lady Seryl, staunch ally of the Empress Celene. Tevinter had conquered the Free Marches, and the Qunari had tried. Orlais through the Chantry had tight control over Starkhaven, Tantervale, and they thought they had Wycombe.

“Yes, I’ve heard of it,” Solas said, “though a copy of it in Haven has been hard to come by. You publish cultural pieces, yes?”

She was distinctly annoyed. “It’s more than that,” she said. “So long, our history and traditions have been locked away--either to protect ourselves from exploitation, or outright stolen by Tevinter or the Chantry. It’s a means for our people to share our own stories across Thedas, yes, but it’s also the only Elvhen-language news source written by the People for the People. So, yes, we have elders writing about their own grandparents’ memories of the Dales, but we have political polemic, we have debate, we have linguistic studies, we’re using it as a way to help reunite families, after the Denerim alienage was purged--”

Solas was smiling. “You write polemic? Agitating for the reclamation of the Dales? A new Arlathan in the Emerald Graves? Finally, an Elvhen homeland?”

Imladris was growing irritated. “No, I don’t think it’s a particularly compelling demand, and the idea of a singular homeland is nonsensical--a truly human oversimplification of the crimes they have committed against our people. The Dalish might be scattered, but my father’s Sindar, and his family has dwelled in the Wycombe delta since the fall of Arlathan. Yes, the Dales belong to the Dalish clans, but we are not going to get anywhere without leveraging international pressure on Celene, who has made it clear she would rather burn Halamshiral twice-over than concede anything to the elves of Orlais or the clans of the Dales. We need political power, yes. But we will not get anything close to that, playing shemlem at the courts of those who hunt us like rabbits. Clan Lavellan has survived--and  _ thrives _ \--because we have control over our labor and our production, and we have seized that control because we haven’t been afraid to ally with shem and dwarves and even Tal-Vashoth rather than seeing them as rivals. Because a poor Ferelden dockworker being paid the same starvation wage as the alienage elf is  _ not _ the enemy--the aristocrat profiting off the goods we unload is. But if we work together, as a collective, we run the docks--and with that, we have  _ leverage _ over all goods coming down the Baranduin, Ithilen, and Imladris rivers. And together, with control of the docks, we can fight off the Blind Men. We can fight off chevaliers. We can chase them back in their dens, and burn them out, and rebuild our cities on the foundations our ancestors built. And we have done it. And we are doing it, and we will win.”

“And what does the Carta think of this?”

“Fen’Harel take the Carta,” Imladris snapped. “The Carta...well, the Carta is not as unified as the Merchants’ Guild would like us to believe. Some of them are perfectly happy to terrorize the Free Marches and collaborate with slavers in King Bhelen’s name. Others want justice for their casteless cousins in Orzammar. I say to them what I have said to everyone who has thought they can crush our movement: dirthara ma.  _ May you learn. _ ”

Solas crossed his arms and studied her. She stared steadily back. He said, softly, “You are not at all what I expected.”

“Is that a compliment? So hard to tell, with you.”

He stepped closer. “You surprise me. A Dalish First, bearing Mythal’s vallaslin, preaching with revolutionary fervor the unification of all oppressed people--I am surprised. The Dalish I have met grub in ancient ruins for whatever fragments of the past they can mismatch and patch to reinforce their own myth of superiority--you look forward, not back.”

“Solas,” Imladris said, exasperated, “what Dalish did you meet? What ruin did you unearth them? And did it ever cross your mind that they were archaeologists?”

Solas scowled, then grimaced, and finally shook his head. “Let us not speak of it.”

Imladris, amused, realized he was embarrassed. “Oh, they woke you up out of a dream, didn’t they?” Solas looked sheepish. Delighted, she went on, “Oh, they must’ve thought you were dead, with the way you go out cold. Did they dump water on you? Or try to loot your corpse?” She caught his expression. “They did try to pick your pocket!”

“They  _ tried _ ,” Solas said, and Imladris started laughing. She put her hand on his arm. “And they did not, ah, take the mind blast particularly well, and it took about ten minutes to convince them I was  _ not _ an arcane horror roused from uthenera, and it is very difficult to get someone to listen to reason when they are trying to kill you.”

“Yes,” Imladris said, “they could have at least checked to see if you had a pulse before attempting to pick your pocket.”

“My apologies,” he said. “I do tend to hold a grudge. So let us leave it on a note of gratitude: thank you for amending my views that the Dalish are all pick-pocketing archaeologists, who don’t know the difference between a bath house and a temple. Even when it is very clearly labeled, above the lintel.”

Imladris said, “Try again. A real compliment, this time.”

He took her hand off his arm and held it. “Then let me praise your indomitable focus, your grace, both metaphorical and physical, under pressure, your ability to make a man cry with a single look--”

“Cullen doesn’t count,” she said. “He’s processing a lifetime of enslavement to the Chantry while trying to run an army. Bad weather makes him cry.”

Solas snorted. “Fine. Leaving aside your ability to strike fear into the hearts of mortal men, you are kind when others would not. All those little errands the peasants of the Hinterlands would beg from you...making sure Wydris had a dignified end--I respect you. I am certain that most would not have worked the good you have done.”

She was too old to blush, but it was nice for a man she liked to tell her what he liked about her, even if he always began it with an insult. She liked him, if she did not have to work with him and camp with him and fight with him every day she would be happy to drag him off to her room, she could see them having fun--but there was always the morning after, and he was not a morning person. The lull in conversation grew awkward. He dropped her hand, and they both recognized the moment had passed. His eyes lingered as he drew his hands behind his back again. There would be other moments, though. She mimicked his posture and tossed her head back, smiling. There would be others.

“Well, there you are.” They turned. Vivienne strode towards them, face neutral. “Fiona said you intended to place safeguards on the other side of the Veil before we began the ritual. I suggest you hurry. I have no intention to spend the whole night in the Fade, battling demons you couldn’t manage to ward off.”

Solas sighed. “Forgive me, Enchanter,” he said. “I didn’t realize I was working under your deadline. Particularly since this is a project I have spearheaded, and you have little to no experience in such matters. You avoid Fade magic, do you not?”

Vivienne’s eyes flashed. “I do not put myself needlessly in the way of creatures who are actively attempting to use my body to wreak havoc, no. But since you will not allow any templars in the ritual circle, you need someone who can laugh when a Pride demon tempts you with the lost apples of Arlathan.” Solas’ lips thinned. Hastily Imladris touched his arm, as if to hold him back.

Solas said meditatively, “What would you know of Arlathan? What would you know of what has been lost? It is not as if you have ever looked beyond the Chantry-approved path. You  _ may _ participate in the ritual, Enchanter, though I doubt it will do either of us much good. But if it makes you feel safer, if it makes you think you can conform myself and Fiona to your own blinkered worldview, then--by all means, join us. But do not lie to yourself. I do not,” he seemed amused, “need a watchman in my own domain. But I am pleased to indulge your curiosity.” Turning away from her, he made a face at Imladris. He touched her arm. “Do you still wish to join us?”

Imladris thought about the physical strain of standing in trance for hours, the type of focus required to keep in control in the Fade, and the exhaustion that had been tugging at her since they shut the Breach. There was no telling what they would face tomorrow, and doubtless Josephine would want her to meet with more Chantry diplomats, they would be pressing for her execution now they no longer needed her, and Leliana had said Charter was expected to come back with details for the lyrium drop, and Cullen, well, Cullen just needed to be pointed in a productive direction since he was too lyrium-sick to point himself. “I think I should rest, actually,” she said. “While I can.”

He smiled. Imladris had the urge to pass her thumb at the edge of the smile-lines at his eyes, trace them around his mouth. “Good idea. We don’t know what tomorrow will bring.” He walked away, supremely ignoring Vivienne, and leaving Imladris feeling slightly bereft. She watched him as he headed to Haven’s hall, and enjoyed his hunter’s prowl--definitely the nicest ass she’d ever seen on an elf.

Vivienne tsked. “A word, my dear?”

“Yes?”

“Is it my imagination, or have certain...lingering looks passed between you and our Solas? Nothing too binding, I hope?”

Imladris scowled. “Why the sudden interest in my personal life?”  
“You don’t have a personal life, darling,” Vivienne said. “You’re the face of the Inquisition. And Solas--well, I don’t quite know what to make of him. So much knowledge, and yet so little personal history...the Tevinter mage noticed his staffwork resembles a technique taught in the highest echelons of the Minrathous Circle, but he is clearly not Tevene and has claimed no human master. I find it a bit peculiar, don’t you?”

Imladris was incredulous. “Are you suggesting he’s a spy?”

“No.” Vivienne’s tone was final. “But you and I both well know that one does not gain that level of skill from curiosity alone. But he won’t say who trained him. He’ll reference spirits, of course, and I know that’s more acceptable amongst your people, but he won’t even reference a school of magic. And I know your people have multiple schools. He is clearly trying to hide something, and he is not being particularly subtle about it. As he has not been subtle about how he likes you.”

“What? Worried I’ll disgrace the Inquisition?” Imladris crossed her arms. “Throw myself into the arms of the enemy?”

“Yes,” Vivienne said, “quite honestly, yes. You were not _quite_ a disaster at the Divine’s funeral soiree, despite your dramatic exit. Though the Arl of Edgehall was unimpressed. But you closed the Breach and that bought you some capital. But dallying with an apostate elf, and one so _strange_ as Solas? What if he gets possessed? What if it turns out he’s a blood mage? What if there is a _reason_ why he is so solitary, and there is an elvhen village somewhere in the north that wants his head? He calls himself Pride, in your language. Does that seem trustworthy to you?”  
Fury surged and Imladris almost said I am a woman before I am a member of this Inquisition, Vivienne. I am an elf before I am of this Inquisition, I am a mage and I cannot help loving my kin, if I did not have someone to laugh with and argue with I would have succumbed to my anger long ago, Cassandra may have told me I am not a captive but you have made it clear there is so little I can do. Let me look, Enchanter. You cannot stop me looking.

Instead she smiled and she looked away, off at Minaeve carousing with Seggritt, not a good man, Iron Bull carefully nipping at that Chantry sister’s neck, not hard enough to bruise, not yet, and the mark faintly pulsed in the palm of her hand. She stretched her fingers. It did not help. Imladris said formally, “I shall take your words under advisement, Enchanter.”

“I hope you will,” Vivienne said, and before they could trade more poison, the screaming began.

* * *

A boy at the gate, carrying a man: Cullen gasped, “Samson,” and grabbed him before he could fall, and Solas was whirling healing magic, pressing bloody hands to the man’s wounds as the boy whispered, “He’s coming. The Elder One. He wants to hurt you. He’s very angry you took his mages. We came to warn you.”

“ _ Look at me _ ,” Solas hissed, “bandages, get me the embrium salve from Adan, Commander help me carry him, we need--”

“He’s dying,” the boy said. “Cold, cold, so cold it burns, the red eating me up from the inside-out,  _ Andraste _ this is worse than the lyrium, Maker have mercy I  _ tried _ \--”

“He won’t die,” Solas said firmly. “Not with the right medical attention. Can you stand?”

The man--Samson, Cullen called him--groaned. Cullen snapped out of his shock and began barking orders as down into the valley those were torches, so many lights flickering it looked like almost daylight, she was not going to panic they levelled him to his feet and hurried him to the Chantry, scouts rushing to brace the gates. Terror and rage, that man’s blood all over herself and Solas and the boy who was gabbling at them, she beat back a storm of flaming arrows with a scream and a wave of her staff, but the fire hit the huts, which began to burn merrily  _ fuck _ .

Cullen yelled, “Inquisition! To arms! For your lives! For the Herald!”

She left Solas and the boy at the chantry, taking care of the wounded, and in the mess someone handed her a mage’s coat, Cassandra let out a roar as they beat back a storm of soldiers, templar uniform but red, the sword was red, she had never been in a battle like this, this wasn’t the street fights or ambushes in the Wycombe delta or guarding merchant caravans or pushing back raiders, they were here to burn them out and distantly she heard a woman screaming and thought it was her mother, Ashalla Halla-Woman burning through the Wycombe Guard and Orlesian templars Duke Antoine brought for his marriage, to teach those elves a lesson in obedience.

“I will not,” she snarled, scorching a corpse. “I will not.” She had not meant to speak aloud.

Haven was not built for a siege, Haven was not even a fort, the walls were weak and the soldiers were barely more than village idiots, and Dorian at her side said, “Travelled through time only to die on a Ferelden mountainside, what would my father say?” as he froze a man quite literally solid, before the sword blow hit her back, she had not noticed them, focus Lavellan, you’re panicking, where’s that indomitable focus, remember to breathe, if you’re going to die you will die in a way that they’ll sing songs for you forever, oh my girls, oh Mathalin, I didn’t even wake you when I left, you never get enough sleep, my little insomniac. Cullen was directing scouts to load up trebuchets, trying to pull down an avalanche to block reinforcements, and suddenly one of the soldiers, the templars, the venatori templars shrieked so horribly the battle paused, everyone stopped and she could see the gray eyes of a woman under the helmet across from her, shocked.

The templar exploded as red rock burst out of his skin and there was only a mishmash of solid lyrium and oozing flesh and singed metal and screaming, an almost familiar song, and then Imladris gasped a breath and rushed and set the woman with the gray eyes on fire as Cassandra charged the monster.

The scout loaded the trebuchet and looked at her, not Cullen. She screamed, “Fire!”

The mountain roared and the ground underfoot shook but the brightness of the flames of the forces 

down the mountainside flicked out, a cool darkness edged closer to Haven and a roar of triumph, of relief, pure survival drowned out the screams of the dying, the horror of red templars. “Thank the Maker,” Vivenne said. One of the horns of her Orlesian helmet had been lopped off. “Andraste’s mercy.”

Imladris, ragged, said, “Andruil’enaste, we did it. We can fight the rest off--to the gates!”

Heat, burn, hard ground and she was still breathing, metallic tang of blood in her mouth, it hurt to breath, a vice around her chest, overheard a shadow in the shape of a dragon, no it was an actually fucking dragon, what the fuck, she rolled to her side and eased onto her knees, and Cassandra helped her to her feet.

Solas yelled, “That is not possible!”

“It looks like an archdemon,” Leliana said coldly. “Blackwall? Are you prepared?”

“Fuck,” Blackwall said.

“It can’t be,” Solas said furiously. “This is impossible, the darkspawn could not have found the next so quickly.”

“Everything that happens around you,” Varric said, staring at the sky, “is bad. What a fucking twist. Fucking archdemon. At least there’s not darkspawn. Yet.”

Imladris, over the panic, yelled, “Get everyone into the chantry, go, go, go. We don’t have  _ time _ , let’s go!” They rounded up whom they could, Vivienne throwing Minaeve over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes while Sera kept everyone off her bag, swearing the whole while. In the Chantry Cullen and Josephine were helping load stretches and druffalo with what they could--the injured, cooking supplies, priceless documents, what could they do, just leave it for looters to loot.

The boy said, “No.” He was at the foot of the Chantry brother, the one who wanted her dead, Rodgerick. “He knows a way. I will tell them. He will not take it. You won’t hurt for longer.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Imladris said, staring.

“I am Cole, I can help.” He looked at Solas and furrowed his brow. “You need help. I can be your knife in the dark. A good one. You are bright and I followed. He wants you, not the others. And there is a path that does not end. It can be done.”

Cullen seized him. “I don’t know who you are but you saved my friend’s life. You say you know a path? Take us there. But, Herald…”

“I know,” Imladris said. “Lead from the front. I can be bait. It won’t be the first time.” Shakily she tried to undo the clasp of her necklace, the one Mahanon gave her. Cole stood up and unhooked it for her. “Make sure my family gets this.”

“Yes,” the boy said. “That I can do. Yes.” And so she ran into the inferno, into the screams of the dying, and did not look back.

The dragon was eating something, someone, almost purring over its meal and a figure like those nightmare paintings she had seen in the Dales stood over it, at least twice her height, looked carved more from rock than flesh but some tattered still clung to its bones, and it stunk. It looked at her and intoned, “Pretender, you toy with forces beyond your ken no more.” Imladris thought hysterically, he sounds like Solas, if Solas and a vaterral fused with a rockwraith, what the fuck is this, some abomination crawled out of the Blight?

“What are you?” she said. “Why are you doing this?”

It sneered, “Mortals beg for truth they cannot have. It is beyond what you  _ are _ , what I  _ was _ . Know me, know what you have pretended to be. Exalt the Elder One, the  _ Will _ that is Corypheus. You  _ will  _ kneel.”

“I am Dalish,” Imladris Ashalla’s daughter snarled, the First of Clan Lavellan. “I am the last of the Elvhen, and we do not submit.”

It looked amused. “It matters not what you are, little shadow. You and your relics will pass like dead whispers, as is fit for the end of your kind. I am here for the Anchor. The process of removing it begins now.” With an oddly graceful gesture, Corypheus upturned his hand. From the center a sphere emerged. Imladris flinched in disgust. “It is your fault, Herald. You interrupted a ritual years in the making, and instead of dying, you stole its purpose.” A mossy green grew out of the ridges in the sphere, and Imladris seized as her hand spasmed. A sigil veined itself over the palm of her hand: the Anchor. She bit back a scream. “I do not know how you survived, but what marks you as touched, what you flail at rifts--I crafted to assault the very heavens. And you used the Anchor to undo my work. The  _ gall _ . It is meant to bring certainty where there is none. For you, the certainty that I will always comes for it. I once breached the Fade in the name of another, to serve the Old Gods and the Empire. I found only chaos and corruption, dead whispers. For a thousand years I was convinced, but no more. I have gathered the Will to return under no name but my own, to champion withered Tevinter and correct this Blighted world. Beg that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the gods. And it was empty.”

As he spoke, Imladris crawled carefully away from the dragon. Blight scars covered its eyes. Blind, it huffed and sniffed, and returned to its meal. She would not look. No need to recognize if you do not look. One trebuchet remained unburnt, enough loaded to bring the mountain onto Haven itself. She thought fleetingly of the Wardens of Ferelden, who met Shartan’s very ghost. Perhaps this would lay him to rest.

“I see,” she yelled back, pretending cockiness. “You do like to talk, don’t you?” Insulted, Corypheus reared up to grab her, the dragon screamed his rage, and she cut the rope holding back the trebuchet and the ground shook and her vision filled with white, she thought, I thought I would die worse than this.   


* * *

Everything hurt but she was hot, hot, hot on cold stone, her mother had died burning herself in her rage and half an army too, protecting the People, that is what a Dalish mage does, da’len, if you must lose yourself be grand about it, and make sure someone will sing of your name, oh _mamae_ , your little favorite is dead, Halla’den didn’t do anything grand but I was killed by a would-be god, maybe human, Tevinter definitely, legend killed me and legend can resurrect me too, my children will not be ashamed of me, now all will know Clan Lavellan can only be killed by the gods, not mortal might. She opened her eyes and saw light trickling down a stone shaft. Not dead yet: fuck. Selfish, selfish: get the fuck up.  
She touched her feet: still there, no toes broken, and her ankles and knees survived the fall too. Her ribs hurt, every breath choked, but she could move her fingers, her arms, and her eyes still saw through the dark. Falon’din had not come to claim her yet. Imladris used her staff to level herself up, and began to drag herself through. She did not let herself look back.

When Antoine of Jader came to marry the Duchess of Wycombe, he brought an Orlesian guard and their prejudices. The Dalish towns that flourished within the Wycome Delta--Imladris, the Golden Wood, Ithilien--revolted them. Wycombe and its rivers belonged to the Duke, they said, and all must pay their tithe to the Chantry. It did not matter that these settlements predated the Blight, that the Dalish moved seamlessly from the city-elves and smaller towns for centuries. It did not matter that the Free Marcher inhabitants of the city-state were not fond of even more taxes levied, paid to the Orlesian Chantry and to the Duke and even to the Empress of Orlais. Wycombe remembered it had been Dalish wardens who saved the city from the Blight. Its new duke did not care. And when she was a child, he struck: to clear the Dalish out.

Mamae, mamae you and Keeper burned the city to keep the shem from taking it and I would not have done that to Haven, I didn’t particularly care for an empty hut, a bathtub with no one to share it with, the only other elves wary servants, flinching every time Cassandra glanced at them, I didn’t want to die for some Chantry religion, not where Shartan was buried, not like this. They docked his ears but at least they gave him the Dales. What will they do to me, if I die? Mamae, mamae, you  _ burned _ . Let me carry that anger, that heat, my magic like your magic keeping me warm. Into the snowblind whiteness Imladris stumbled out of the cave, and distantly a wolf howled.

“Fen’Harel ma ghilana,” she choked. She fell to her knees, cold seeping into the blood-soaked lambswool of her leggings, why had she not let Harrit talk her into proper chainmail? Or leather? “Fenhedis lasa.” She did not want to die, ripped apart by wolves, bones cast about by the storm. Something would come back if she died like that. She clenched her hands into fists and, huffing, heaved herself back up. Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe like the molten core under the sea. She coughed sparks into her hands and walked. Keep moving, Lavellan. You have survived worse than this. 

Dead in a ditch off the Ithilien River, if that farmer hadn’t found you. Starved out in the Barghello in Wycombe proper, if Sister Lucie hadn’t intervened. Dead in her own namesake, Imladris, a burnt out shell, when the guards came. Dead, dead, dead, dead and publicly executed if Briala hadn’t gotten you and Mahanon out of Val Royeaux when you robbed the University: stupid fucking idea but how dare they. How dare. Outrage was good, outrage helped bank the fire, Halla’den had fallen to a Despair demon, but Imladris was stronger than that, older, more experienced, better trained. Nothing but the cold would nip at her mind.

“Keep fucking walking,” she told herself. Breathing was difficult, like a lodestone in her chest. No pendant, nothing for them to loot, the boy had it, Cole, Varric wouldn’t let him steal it, she gave it in full of everyone, someone, who knows, it would get to her daughters and they would know they could wear her legacy, something of both of them, gone but the stone remained, in the Frostbacks only the dwarves and the Avvar eked an unlikely living, the closest Dalish clan was Boranehn, and she had met the arl that commanded them, hadn’t she? Vivienne said she had done bad. Well she was punished, if only it would be only her punished, if she died with this fucking Anchor dragging her down would that mean that creature could not take it?

If she died they would all die too. She passed a hastily-built campfire, still smoldering, and stopped a second to flare the embers. Her Keeper had taught her a trick, to siphon off the heat from another’s fire, to conserve one’s own energy. She had taught it to Mathalin, but Mirwen was too young when she left. Deshanna would take over the training, she must have already begun, and Imladris shuddered as the wind kicked snow into her face, if she stopped she would freeze to death, be eaten by wolves, taken by despair.

So cold it felt like her feet were burning as they were losing sensation, she lugged herself through the snow, kicked into her face like glass after the explosion, when a different Carta clan had blown up her printing press, was it the wind or the wolves or some hungry ghosts howling. Regardless the Frostbacks soared higher than her eyes could track, granite mountains older than her gods and she asked Dirthamen, you guard the knowledge lost to your children, but if you have mercy, any mercy at all, if you want this knowledge to carry on, reveal one of those lost caches the ancestors left. These mountains were old when Elgar’nan was still new, blinking into the blinding sun: show me where we carved the mountain path. Everywhere I walk I go in the steps of those who lived before. Ensure that there will be those after me.

Spring down the mountain but no spring here: Imladris could not feel her feet anymore, and when she fell she wailed as she clambered on her hands and her knees, she did not want to die like this, the Dalish did not bend the knee. Thought faded as consciousness became only the snow on the mountain, the unthinking rock, the ice that cut, inch by inch, piece by piece, nothing special.  _ Dirthamen ghilana ma _ : an old cry, never answered. The god of secrets kept his counsel close. A pile of snow, raised higher than the others: she tripped over it, a pot, Ferelden-style, the smell of stew still frozen to it. Imladris gasped, cutting through the pain, and wrenched herself back: there was still a chance. She coughed, sparks flying, and sent that pulse of mana back down to her feet. The pain was not a mistake: it was a reminder she was still alive. She screamed anyway.

In Duke Antoine’s prison, there had been a Tal-Vashoth that had murmured to herself the Soul Canto during the worst of it, when they were left alone listening to what was being done on the other side of the world. She would say, “If you love purpose, fall into the tide. Let it carry you. Do not fear the dark. The sun and the stars will return to guide you. The sea and the sky themselves: Nothing special. Only pieces.”

“Nothing special,” Imladris repeated to herself, lumbering on. “Only pieces. Nothing special. Only pieces.” Elves saw better than shem and qunari in the dark. Hallucinatory the sun creeped into the mountains, shifting steel to gold, her blood moving, Elgar’nan’s father returned by Mythal’s mercy, no secret, only pieces. Fire in the body, blood in the limbs, dawn coming she reached the top of a slope and exhausted, gazed down at a herd of druffalo snuffling amongst tents: Avvar? A bear came running and Imladris fell to her knees.  _ Dirthamen had answered _ : nothing special, just pieces.

“Lavellan! Lavellan! Maker, she’s alive. Cassandra, get a medic!”

Not Dirthamen. Fucking  _ Inquisition _ . With that realization, she let the sun take her, and melted into its warmth.


	10. Tarasyl'an Telas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imladris adapts to being the Inquisitor, and the Inquisition adapts to Imladris.
> 
> Imladris’ children finally arrive, and Lavellan is confronted with the fact that she is no longer just one of the leaders of her people--she is losing herself to legend now, which her children do not like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> references characters introduced in chapter four. as a refreshed: Imladris has three siblings: her older sister Ashara, her twin brother Revas, her little sister Halla'den. Halla'den was taken by templars when she was a child and dies, driven mad by the Breach, in the Hinterlands (reference chapter five for that scene.) Ashara has a son, Samahl, with their old friend Luis, nicknamed the Mouse. Mouse is human, from a family of Rivaini merchants, but converts to the Dalish religion and has Mythal's vallaslin. Ashara is taken by the Grey Wardens seventeen years before this story begins. Samahl is not a mage. Imladris' twin brother, Revas, is briefly enslaved by Tevinter slavers; he meets Dorian before escaping to Seheron, but that's a story I'm not going to tell quite yet. He has his own set of twins, Malika and Azadi, with his wife Olivine Cadash. They are about sixteen; Azadi killed someone important in Wycombe and got sent to his cousins in Dust Town in a hurry, to get out of trouble. Malika, though, is more of a shit-stirrer than him. Imladris herself has two young daughters, with her late husband Mahanon from Val Royeaux; both are mages. Mathalin is about twelve or thirteen, Mirwen is almost six, and they haven't seen her in a year. Mirwen is a somniari and rather disassociative. Hope that helps--you know you've introduced too many characters when you as the writer has trouble making sense of the family tree!

They call her Lady Lavellan, in a mountain fortress all in ruins, as if that means something. They have her wield a sword almost as long as she is tall, and they gasp when she holds it without faltering. Her ribs ache, of course, but she is strong. The people are cheering: hers, now, what’s another obligation added to the list? Someone takes the sword from her and Imladris Ashallin, First of Clan Lavellan, is Inquisitor now. They have taken her title and made it into something new: Your Worship. They fall at her feet. The elves in the crowd remain standing. The Dalish do not prop up mortals, and certainly not while they are still living. Even their own gods they hold slightly suspect. Imladris’ eyes seek someone, anyone, a familiar face in the courtyard, but can catch no one. She thinks to herself, they will burn me. That is what they did to Andraste. They will burn me.

Josephine picks her way delicately through the wreckage of the hall, grinning and talking about glaziers, rivalring the recent work done to a chantry in Halamshiral, and Leliana shepherds her towards the war room. Cullen slows, murmuring softly to the man the boy brought: Samson, vhenallin, he had come with a note from Athenril, and Varric has vouched for him. Imladris blinks slowly and tugs at her necklace, the halla pendant her bondsman gave her: Mahanon, the halla rampant. She cuts in, “Have you seen the stained glass from the Temple of Sylaise, at the University of Val Royeaux? I would like something similar.”

Josephine is taken aback for a moment, but only for a moment. “Of course, Inquisitor.” She bows slightly, and Imladris catches Leliana smiling thinly behind her.

“You are Dalish,” she says. “We must not let the world forget that. Our Inquisitor stands for all Thedas, even when the Chantry does not.”

Cullen hurries over to open the door for them. Imladris is still weak from the battle, the journey through the Frostbacks, but they had her lift the sword anyway. Foggily she leads the way to the room where a massive stump sits, a map of the south spread across it. Fiona is fingering a small crown, the place marker Leliana had made to track Alistair’s position. Startled, she places it back on Denerim, with a small clink.

“No,” Leliana says. “He’s in Redcliffe now, clearing up what remains of the venatori force. He’ll be here in a week, Grand Enchanter.”

Grown sons rarely write home. Mathalin has only dashed a few lines onto the letter her brother sent, when they found out she survived: “We’re alright and Mirwen sleeps better so I sleep better. Come home soon, I love you.” Fiona’s face mirrors the fear and exhaustion she feels. One must accept being a bad mother. They can’t be held to the standards of the Thedas nobility, she reminds herself: still, she feels badly. Imladris leans against the table and stares down at the new model for their fortress.

“So?” she says. “Shall we begin?”

* * *

  
Varric finds her at night on the battlements. The stars are whirling overhead, or perhaps it is her; she has her head against the cool old stone. She knows they have set scouts to watch her. Her ribs may have healed but the exhaustion has crept into her bones, and it still hurts to walk too much. Josephine has set up her rooms at the highest tower, and Imladris cannot make it up there without help. She does not know whom to ask.

He takes in the scene, her clutching the stone. “Cole told me you were here,” he says finally. “Your Worshipfulness.”

She makes a noise:  _ wretched, get away, _ and then draws herself up. “Why? Has Solas figured out what he is yet?”

“Compassion, apparently,” he says. “You can’t make this shit up. Apparently he took a body? But it’s his own, he’s not possessing anybody. Everything that happens to you is weird.”

Imladris puts a hand out to the wall to steady herself. “I know. Blame the Anchor.” It is calm now, the spiral mark gently growing green. Solas made a salve to soothe it, and applied it himself. She shivered slightly. If she asked him to help her to her rooms, it would invite too much talk, and she is afraid he would not say no.

Varric says, “So. I got a letter from Hawke today. They want to speak with you. Not here, they don’t want to deal with Cassandra or Cullen or whatever. And there was a page for you, from Fenris. Didn’t know you knew him.”

That would be about the raiders she had promised him over a year ago, before the Conclave. Clan Lavellan and House Cadash had sworn two ships to join his and Isalebala’s fleet against the Blind Men. She knows she had been forgetting something: she was still First, Deshanna had not replaced her yet. “I know everyone,” Imladris says, wavering on her feet. “Everyone I need to know. Though Vivienne and Josephine and Leliana would disagree.”

He hesitates, then moves in closer. “You okay?”

I had three of my ribs broken by a darkspawn magister and his Blighted dragon a week ago and had to lead a procession of assorted Andrastian refugees through the Frostbacks. They want to send me back to the Hinterlands as a show of strength but I am weary. My people were immortal once, but this type of life is aging me faster than the Fade can replenish. I miss my family so much I cannot breathe. I cannot breathe. “Just taking a breath,” Imladris says finally. “Long day. Week. Month. Year. Life.”

“Well, if you want to grab a drink and some halfway decent food, Dorian and I took over a room that only has a small hole in the wall. It’s not too bad a walk from here. We were thinking about playing Wicked Grace. Solas might come by!”

“Is that supposed to tempt me?”

Varric laughs. “Come on. Have a drink, it’ll do you good. Can’t all be medicinal poultices and elfroot tea.”

The castle stone is pleasantly warm under her feet. The closer they get to the courtyard, the less dizzy she feels, and she wonders if this is the ancient elvhen magic Solas rhapsodes over, when he led them to the fortress. The ancestors had woven heat into the very stones. Despite the snow outside the fortress, it feels like a pleasant early spring inside. Imladris smiled to herself. Whoever had enchanted Tarasyl’an Telas had a commitment to being cozy.

Varric opens the door and the hot stench of sour whisky, drying woolens, and moldy books staggers her. Dorian is hunched over an illuminated manuscript half his size, eyes manic and hands glowing green.

“You good?” Varric says hesitantly.

“Uff!” Dorian throws his hands up. “This castle has  _ archival preservation spells _ built into the very mortar, predating the Imperium by at least a century, and Solas just looks smug when I ask him about it. So I am going to reconstruct the formula and wave it in his face. ‘Lost knowledge of the ancients,’ my arse. He’s seen it in the Fade and has no interest in sharing it.”

Imladris settles next to him, bones creaking in protest. Varric pours her a glass of whisky in a dirty glass. She squints at the residue in the bottom. It could be dirt from the journey from Haven. It could be recently unearthed from the kitchens, and as old as Corypheus himself. She sips at it, partly to strain the dirt, and forces herself not to gag.

“Why should he?” she asks. “It’s not your culture. Not your right.”

Dorian flinches. “Well, magic’s not species-exclusive, but--right,” he wavers, then snarches her glass. “You’re not drinking it right, it’s slop. Down the gullet it goes.” He drinks it quickly, wiping his moustache. “See?” He proffers her the glass, dirt clinging to the lip.

“Keep it,” Imladris says. “Please.” Does he think she thinks it was poisoned? She is too tired for these little games.

Dorian is uncomfortable, but so is she. Her shoulder aches. Breathing hurts, and her feet are falling asleep. But she cannot manage those stairs up to her tower, where Josephine thought it best for her to sleep. At home she would collapse to whatever bedroll was not already filled, the Friendly Homes were always filled with wayfarers, and they kept each other safe. Now Varric seems to be the only person keeping an eye on her, but only because he blames himself. He thinks he loosed Corypheus on the world, he and Hawke. Imladris considers her cup, the amber magelight pooling in the warp of the glass. Disinterestedly, she says, “What do you think happened to the world we saw? In Redcliffe? Do you think it still exists?”

“I hope not,” Dorian says, “but probably. If we saw it then some imprint of it exists in the Fade. But I’m not somniari.” He tips his head back. “The Maker thought he gave me enough blessings, I suppose. With these looks…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Varric says, “you’re beautiful. Either of you play Wicked Grace?” He has a worn deck of cards, and is shuffling them, hands blurring. A game of cards in an old ruin hidden in the Frostbacks, with a Tevinter altus and a Kirkwall deshyr, right after getting tossed around by a Blighted dragon: Imladris wonders if this is some trick of the Fade, if a Curiosity spirit was teasing her. Varric deals her in and pours both her and Dorian another drink. The whisky is too bad for it to be a dream.

Mostly Dorian and Varric chat. She doesn’t even bother trying to count cards, they’re not playing for money anyway, just using chips of plaster fallen from the walls. It takes her two rounds and one more drink to realize that the fire crackling merrily in the hearth is enchanted with spells for calm and the dregs in the cup are from an analgesic powder. The fog that settled in her bones lifts, and she recognizes and embraces the mood-easing medicine softening these strangers for her.

“Spindleweed,” she announces. “And Prophet’s Laurel? Rashvine, and quite a lot of embrium. Good choice.”

Varric looks a little sheepish, but Dorian plays his hand without shame. “I haven’t been having the easiest of dreams,” he says, “after Redcliffe. The medicine helps. Take a box with you to your quarters, if you like. It’ll make you so high you’ll float back up.”

Imladris rubs her nose. “I believe you.” The muscles in her neck and back are loosening, and when she stretches, her bones don’t creak. “I ought to be heading up.”

Varric gets up and offers her a hand. Exhausted, she stares at it. He bites his nails. “Can’t have you going there alone, not this stoned,” he says. “Leliana’s orders, anyway. We all move in pairs until Cullen’s got the guard rotation figured out and the watchtowers set up.”

She doesn’t want to touch him, not now that he’s got saliva on his nails. She is almost high enough to tell him that, but old instincts kick in, and she grounds herself in the warmth of the smooth cool floor. Varric moves to touch her around the waist, to help her out of the room, but she steps quickly out of his reach. She knows he rolls his eyes at her, exchanging a glance with Dorian behind her back. Hand on the wall of Tarasyl’an Telas, she thinks dreamily, I can see everything. This castle is mine and it wakes to my touch.  
They walk along the ramparts and back into the rotunda, and troop down the stairs to the blank walls Solas has claimed. He is sitting in the center of the floor, staring at the walls. Imladris stops, and Varric curses as he and Dorian crash into each other. Solas looks up, amused.  
  
“Aneth ara, Inquisitor,” he says. “Andaran atish’an.” Hello: enter this place with peace. He pronounces the first phrase like a Vint, the other like a priest. She steps forward, and the torches he has arranged in equal intervals around the circle light up. She cannot tell whose magic the fortress is reaching for, she is annoyed that she let herself get this stoned. Peevishly she walks up to one of the stone sconces and stares at it. Each of them bear the identical representative of a dragon, with inlaid lyrium-crystal eyes. They appear of dwarven make, before the fall of Varen Thaig by the design of the dragon’s horns and eyes, but there is something off about the stone itself. It isn’t worn. She reaches to touch it, then stops herself. She does not know how the mana of the castle itself will respond. She glances back, and Solas is standing now, watching her.  
  
“Uh,” Varric says, “we’re taking her back to her quarters. We all got a little stoned, you know how it is.”  
  
“Indeed,” Solas says. “I believe the sconces date to Skyhold’s period as a surface fortress for the exiles of Kal’Cad’halash, whose thaig was destroyed for harboring the last of the Elvhen. They were driven from this place and across the Waking Sea not by an army of Orzammar, but by their own people--a tribe of elves who assimilated into the Avvar, who did not like them encroaching so close to their own state.”  
  
“How do you know this?” she asks. The timeline he claims checks out with the style of the stone, but it seems so unlikely.  
  
Solas smiles. “It is magnificent, the things you can find in dreams.”  
  
“This is not your first time in this castle?”  
  
Solas laughs. “No. Though it has been a very long time since I was here last.” He smiles sadly. “But you ought to get some rest, Inquisitor. Not even the Herald of Andraste can walk away from an avalanche unscathed.”  
  
Imladris rolls her eyes. “Don’t tell Josephine that, she’s had her clerks minimizing my injuries all week.” She steps away from the sconce, feeling a bit dizzy, but the ground rises to meet her step readily. “Tell me more about Tarasyl’an Telas. When you have time.”  
  
Solas says, “Of course. Dareth shiral. Get some rest.”  


* * *

The runners bring the news before the letter arrives. An Inquisition scout had spotted an odd assortment of humans and dwarves travelling with a few Dalish aravels. It worries here. There are few Dalish clans that embraced Lavellan’s policy of folding in refugees. It is almost definitely her people, but they rarely take paths snaking into the Frostbacks. More than the impracticality of the route, there was no way they would send so many aravels so far, especially not with Thedas in such chaos. It is too risky. If they are Lavellan, then something must have happened, and it must have been bad.

Skyhold is still in ruins. They have stuck her in the top floor of a tower, alone, though Leliana and Josephine sleep below. The others have eked out a space where they could. Sera sleeps in an alcove in the tavern, Blackwall found a place in the barn, Cassandra sleeps with her complement of soldiers, and Solas has been sleeping on his own scaffolding in the rotunda as he sketches out a series of frescoes. It is an odd thing to fixate on, but Imladris has not had the time to ask him why. She has only heard others mention it, that it is supposed to be beautiful--and unlike anything anyone had seen before, besides in ruins. She hopes she can show her kin something more than ruins. They deserve more than trekking from dead city to dead city for her.

In the war room, she and Leliana examine maps of Crestwood and plot the most efficient course for the Inquisition forces. The Champion of Kirkwall is supposed to sneak in as well. There is so much going on, it is almost impossible to keep every thread untangled. The wind howls against the tall glass of the dark room, and the candelabra flickers. Some maquis near the Tirashan offered to send her magic glass if she investigated rumors. Is she just Thedas’ errand girl?  
  
“...inform me that Caer Bronach has been taken over by bandits, thus splitting Crestwood’s forces. I do not think sending a full expeditionary force would be practical. I advise we send you along with a complement of our scouts and investigate the rising of the undead. When I was with the Wardens, blood magic was at the root of it. I have not heard of apostates in that part of Ferelden--” Imladris snaps back to attention and refocuses on Leliana. Leliana would have heard of apostates, working so closely with the Divine.  
  
“The dead rise when the Veil is weak,” she says. “And there’ll be no ending of that ‘til we heal the Breach. I should go, and see what I can do with the rifts.”  
  
Leliana nods and moves a minuscule glass halla statue to the Crestwood. Imladris quirks a slight smile at her. The Inquisition is for everyone, but the Inquisitor is for the Dalish. It seems all her statements are heavy with symbolism now. It is worse than being a priest. She reaches to the shelf behind her and tears into a loaf of bread. Josephine has made sure she is supplied with the best. She would have preferred the same scraps her soldiers eat, and it would be better for morale, but they say she has an image she must keep up. She takes a bite and thinks about her scars. No amount of finery can take the Dalish wild woman away.

Leliana pours herself a glass of wine and they are both staring at the map in silence when a knock on the door startles them. Imladris wipes the crumbs off her face and calls, “Enter.” In Wycombe everyone just barged in, even Deshanna. Deshanna would yell if she didn’t open the door quickly enough. A dwarven scout slides in, looking bashful, and presents a letter to her quickly.

“From Keeper Deshanna Istimaethorial Lavellan, Your Worship,” she says nervously. Imladris is pleasantly surprised she managed all the syllables, but Leliana would only employ the best. She dismisses her and turns the letter in her hands. Deshanna wrote a bloodward on it, edging into forbidden territory as always. Her eyes cut to the seneschal. Leliana is waiting, impassive. She will not have privacy to read this. She will have to unlock it in front of the Left Hand of the Divine. It is irritating to have to do mild blood mage in front of a Chantry official. Deshanna should have known better--but how would she have known how she would rise? She still cannot believe it herself.

Imladris pulls out her dagger and cuts her thumb. She presses the bloody print to the seal. It sizzles and heals her finger. The wax melts and smoke comes off the envelope as the wards relax. She unfolds it and reads aloud, “Fresh troops from the Empress. She wants Wycombe if Jader falls. Three raids, one in the Ferelden encampment, another in the alienage, and one against Rivendell. Six dead, one sympathetic farmer’s fields torched, and our printer’s office in Wycombe burned. Sister Lucie says the Nightingale will show us mercy. I am sending three guildsmen and their families to you, as well as your own children. Antoine has a new adviser with a posh accent, says Rope. Worth investigating, but we are spread too thin guarding our own walls. Will take your advice. Mythal keep you and may the Dread Wolf never hear your step. I fear we are coming closer to our own destiny.” She folds it and burns it, wiping the ashes into her hands. She stares sardonically at Leliana. “And how do you advise me now, Seneschal?”

* * *

She finds Fiona in the library and invites her to dinner in her quarters. She doesn’t like being alone in that huge, drafty room of cold stone and glass. They walk together, consciously enjoying the whispers: two elvhen mages, clearing plotting. Maybe they’re fucking! The few Orlesians skulking about the Great Hall have no sense of subtlety, and they don’t seem aware that both of them speak Orlesian fluently.

When they get to her room, Fiona laughs. “How can you stand them?” she says. She is about the age of her mother-in-law, and has the same dark hair and accent too. She kicks off her shoes and leaves them at the door. Imladris shrugs and waves her over to the plush armchairs in front of the fireplace. The servants have left them a spread. She pours them both wine and collapses into her chair.  
  
“I try to pay them no mind,” Imladris says. “I can’t tell them to fuck off like you can. Not anymore, anyway.”

Fiona sips at the wine appreciatively, as if either of them have a palate. “I want that written on my grave, First Lavellan. ‘Fuck the Divine!’ I truly thought those would be my last words.”  
Imladris smiles, kicking her feet towards the fire. She has read this woman’s work her whole life. She has even delivered her speeches, at the Arlathvhen and smaller clan gatherings. Now they are sitting together eating dinner in a ruined tower in the Frostbacks, with the world in utter chaos, and they are the ones who will guide it back. She shivers. “What do you know of Crestwood, hahren?” she asks.  
  
Fiona snorts. “I’m not that old, Inquisitor.” She dips bread into her stew. Everyone has been on rations, though Imladris gets the best bread, and they test her portion for poison. It is an absurd situation. They aren’t hunting either, but trading for it--such a waste. “I haven’t been there since the Occupation.” Everyone speaks of their occupation as if it were the only one. Imladris blinks. She guesses she means the Orlesian occupation of Ferelden; she had been born right at the end, when Fiona was making a name for herself. “The darkspawn broke down the dam and drowned the old village. A fourth of the villagers drowned, but so did the darkspawn. The wardens decided to leave it alone, and focused on driving the stragglers back to the Korcari Wilds instead. Why?”  
  
Imladris drinks her wine. “I didn’t know darkspawn were so intelligent. The ones we dealt with, well--it was easy, they just charged. The problem was they spoilt the harvest…” she trailed off. That was a hungry year, and a desperate one. Even House Cadash had tightened its belt. But Clan Lavellan had stayed in the ruins of the Friendly Homes, and she and Deshanna had not led their people to their ruination--yet. Though it had been a foolish idea to explore that old dwarven cairn, and they were lucky that the Wardens sealed what they had dug out.  
Fiona’s face is neutral. She is hiding something. Wardens keep their secrets close, even the elves, even the mages. “I would worry more about the undead than the darkspawn, Inquisitor.” Imladris makes a mental note to ask Leliana to look into intelligent darkspawn. Solas might know--she does not want to think about Solas right now.

“Lethallin,” Imladris corrects. She is perhaps desperate for connection. Isn’t everyone. She looks at Fiona. If she grew out her hair, she would look even more like her mother-in-law, who she needs to write. “We entered this alliance with an acknowledgement of full equality, Grand Enchanter.”  
  
“Fine,” Fiona says. Imladris is surprised at the undertone of bitterness. “Lethallin.” She toasts to her. “My son said the undead came to Redcliffe as unceasingly as the sea. The only way to break the siege was to break the enchantment. You need to fix the Veil first. Worry about the darkspawn later. That wasn’t a true archdemon Corypheus summoned. That’s not what it looks like. It was--Blighted, somehow. But Blighted creatures do not necessarily herald a new Blight.” Fiona would know what an archdemon looks like: she had helped with the dissections once King Alistair allowed the Orlesian wardens in. She did not have to worry about its blood Tainting her again, after all. Imladris had read her report. It had not been that difficult for Briala to steal.  
  
“Your son,” Imladris says, then stops. She is speaking to the King’s mother. It is a completely absurd situation to be in. She forces herself on, “King Alistair should be here in a week. Leliana has consulted with Bann Teagan and scheduled you a morning audience--without Queen Anora in attendance. I thought you should know.”  
  
Fiona smiles. “And I’ve heard your daughters will be with us soon. They are both mages, yes?” Imladris sighs. They are both mages, and obnoxious about it. Mathalin keeps burning herself and Mirwen likes zapping her sister and cousins, as if Imladris cannot taste the mana in the room. Fiona laughs at her expression. “What will you do about their schooling?”  
  
“Mother Giselle won’t get to them,” Imladris leans back in her chair and crosses her legs. “While their father was Andrastian, I’ve raised my girls in our ways.” Fiona grimaces slightly, and Imladris remembers she was born a serf in Orlais. “I do not think you can raise a mage in your Chantry and keep them whole. ‘Magic is meant to serve man’--what does that mean for elves?”  
  
Fiona says, “You know they burned Andraste, and she founded their religion. Talk like that and they’ll make the flames on your throne real.”  
  
Imladris says dryly, “Don’t I know it,” and finishes her glass. She gazes into the fire, thinking about all the near-misses she has had. She had been spared when Antoine culled the Dalish because of her lack of vallaslin. She had avoided being captured by the Blind Men when her brother had been less lucky. Briala had managed to divert her from the White Spire when she had been arrested in Val Royeaux. And then, of course, there had been the torment in the Barghello: but that did not bear thinking about. She refills Fiona’s glass and her own. “How did you escape the White Spire? I was almost sent there. I heard Dalish did not...fare well there.”  
  
Fiona studies the play of light flickering in the fine Serault glass. These are the nicest things either of them have ever drunk from. They are fit for the Divine herself. Imladris suspects they were meant for the Divine. But Justinia is dead: good fucking riddance. “Your spirit companion,” that is one way to describe the walking anxiety attack that is Cole, “says enough, I think.”  
Imladris snorts. “When you can get prose from him.”  
  
Fiona says, “Well, he’s not as bad as that apostate companion of yours. He rattled off a refutation of Madame de Fer’s theory of concentric Veils in heroic couplets. I almost applauded, just for the _look_ on her face.” Fiona leans back and smiles. “Fucking bitch.”  
  
Imladris knows she should defend her, but she is just relieved to see a sign of Fiona loosening up. She doesn’t like Vivienne, and Vivienne has made it clear that she disdains her, but she knows that she should not insult one of her companions. Josephine has spoken at length about the importance of a united front, but she still wishes she could switch the two women. She has little interest in pandering to the most reactionary elements of the Circle, which would kill her at best and make her Tranquil as an apostate heretic at worst, but she knows she needs Vivienne’s connections to the Council of Heralds. That still does not make her relationship with Fiona any easier. She wants, so badly, to be her friend.  
  
“She took it upon herself to redecorate my quarters,” Imladris says instead. “Rearranged my furniture to her specifications, and had her servants go through my drawers.” Luckily she doesn’t own much--just a picture of her daughters, some clothes, and the lute her hand hurts too much to play. Vivienne didn’t find anything interesting, and that’s the way she likes it.  
Fiona snorts. “Well, what do you expect? That is what the templars would do, and she is their pet--however much she likes to say the leash tugs both ways. You have heard of the gilded cage her Bastien kept her in, yes? I have been a slave, Inquisitor. I know you are familiar with the details of my background. It is still violation, even when it feels normal. And I resent that she spreads her poison in your organization’s framework, and expects the mages to come to _her_ heel.”  
  
Imladris says carefully, “I’ve spoken to Cassandra and the quartermaster about prioritizing the mages’ housing needs, and I agree we need to limit her involvement in whatever school we set up--”  
  
Fiona growls, “Yes, Seeker Pentaghast, I know you’ve spoken to her. And what, pray tell, did she say?”  
  
“She has no influence in the allocation of resources, and the Seneschal understands the importance of a well-situated mages’ tower. While she can be rude and ignorant to the point of insulting,” Imladris reigns herself in, reminding herself she shouldn’t gossip about how Cassandra tried to convert her, or the horrible patronizing way she speaks to Sera, “her position has been curtailed. She is in the Inquisition to train soldiers and fight at my side. She will have nothing to do with policing the mages.”  
  
Fiona leans back in her chair. “And after? Will she and her ilk hunt us all down and kill us as apostates? You heard what her order did in Dairsmuid. Are you so powerful and influential that you can abolish the Rite of Annulment? What are you, Inquisitor, but a Dalish mage? What will you be when this is done, and what can you do for our people? Can you keep us safe?”  
Imladris stares her straight in the eye. “Why else am I here, Grand Enchanter?” she says icily. “What else was I born for? I didn’t come into this earth to roll over and die. You said it yourself. Another world is possible--and I have dug myself out of an avalanche to make it. I hope that satisfies you.”  
  
Fiona smiles thinly. She has taken her measure, just as Vivienne did, and Imladris does not know if Fiona likes what she sees. “As much as anything can, Inquisitor. Lethallin.” She gets up. “Now, I think it’s time for me to say my prayers.” Imladris wonders: to which pantheon? Silently, she follows her to the stairs and watches her descend to the landing. Before Fiona opens the door, she looks up and says, “Mythal guide you, Lavellan. Because no one else can.”  
  
When Fiona leaves, Imladris empties the bottle into her glass and lumbers to the balcony facing away from the courtyard. She leans against the cool stone. The wine has left her flushed and she feels that she is teetering on an emotional precipice of longing, fear, grief. She slides down to the ground and watches the fires flicker in the soldiers’ camp below. They are her soldiers, sworn to Andraste’s Herald. She is a pilgrimage now.  
  
They flock to her banner, the Inquisition’s eye. She had tasked Josephine with buying Dalish banners from Clan Ralaferin but she cannot fly it. The Inquisition is not for the Dalish. Few of her people heed the Divine’s writ. She cannot blame them. She would ignore it, too, and Fiona has made it clear that the rebel mages are still uneasy, especially with a Seeker attending every war table meeting. She will have to mitigate that, somehow, but she cannot bring Fiona in without offending Vivienne. The wind whistles through the mountain peaks and she shivers. Imladris curls into herself. She wishes Fiona would have stayed, by why would she? They barely know each other.  
  
She thought Fiona would have been friendlier. She thought she would have been kind. The parallels of their situation were obvious. She had hoped they would strike up an immediate rapport, and Fiona had been nice. Fiona was funny. But she was formal, letting the distance of their titles lie between them. She had thought that she would be more like Manon, her mother-in-law, quick and passionate and sly--and they looked and sounded so much alike. The accent was the same, redolent of the Orlesian Dales, and they both had dark hair with strands of gray. The conversation had left her feeling lonelier. Fiona was not her friend, not Manon, and she needed to remember that. In Tarasyl’an Telas, Imladris ias alone.  
Before, Imladris had rarely slept alone, and never in a room so large and lonely as this. There was always Mahanon, and the girls climbing in with them where they were still little. After, Deshanna would stay to help her in the Fade. At least in Haven she could hear other people breathe. The air thins sound. It is eerily quiet. She closes her eyes and wishes she had coaxed Fiona into singing with her--but Fiona is an ally, not a friend. She might look like her mother-in-law, but she certainly isn’t her. She should have asked her to come with her, back in Val Royeaux. She would have, especially if she could see her grandchildren again.  
  
She has abandoned her children. She knows this. She was only supposed to be gone for a few months. She has barely written them. They have barely responded, but her little one would barely know how to write by now, and preteens are not the best correspondences. What will she say when they arrive? She is so busy, managing the Skyhold restoration efforts and the war and she’ll have to leave soon, after Hawke and the King arrive, and what will she tell her daughters then? They are not more important than the fate of the world. Sometimes only bad choices remain.

Imladris flexes her hand and examines the Anchor. It twinges, radiating sickly-green light. “The hand of destiny,” she murmurs, and barks a laugh. It echoes in the empty chamber. She pulls herself up from the stone ground and climbs into bed, and cocoons herself in blankets and prays that the Fade will offer her no challenges. “Mythal guide me,” she says, remembering Fiona’s words. She offers up her own prayer. “May the Dread Wolf never catch my scent.”  


* * *

She is walking in Haven as the snow gently falls, but even in dreams the Breach hisses above her head. She looks up the path and there is Solas, staring up at the sky. He turns when he senses her walking and smiles. They haven’t talked in awhile, though sometimes she runs across him in dreams. Imladris suspects he takes the nightmares away.

“Haven?” she asks.  
  
“I thought you would prefer something familiar,” he says. “It will always be important to you.” The snow falls thicker and the scene almost changes, but she frowns and the colors sharpen again. The snow clears. He gestures to her and she follows. They are in the hall now, the dungeons. Imladris is disconcerted, and stops at the steps to make sense of the scene. Solas regards the shackles in the center of floor and speaks without turning to face her. “You asked me last we met of my own journey. Truly it begins here.”  
  
Imladris sees a woman seize in chains and bite a man’s hand so hard he bleeds on her face. She flushes. She had forgotten she had attacked him: prison instincts. She does not like it when people touch her face. She says, “Cassandra tasked you with keeping me alive. With studying the Anchor.”  
  
Solas’ shoulders hunch, and he turns around. “I did the best I could. I ran every test I could imagine, searched the Veil for answers. Yet I found nothing.” He smiles. “Cassandra suspected duplicity. She threatened to have me executed as an apostate if I did not produce results.” They both see it, the quick beheading with the templar blade, then the body burned and ashes scattered. Maybe one of the mages would have kept the bone necklace, to remember. He would have been a smear on a snowy landscape, quickly washed away, and she would have joined him. He is alive only because she is alive, and she is alive because he kept the Anchor from eating her alive. In his eyes she sees the gratitude. He is a very tender man.  
  
She says, “Cassandra’s like that with everyone. She stabbed Varric in the book.”  
  
Solas laughs. “Yes.”  
  
Then they are at the threshold of the little shack he shared with Varric and Adan and she knows if she takes him inside she’ll bed him, and Solas looks mischievous as he gazes up at the Breach. “You were never going to wake up. How could you, a mortal sent physically through the Fade? I was frustrated, frightened. The spirits I would have consulted otherwise had fled the Breach. Although I wished to help,” and she could feel that earnest desire as the ground solidified under feet and suddenly her footwraps were damp from the snowfall as the world grew definition, “I had no faith in Cassandra, nor she in me. I was ready to flee.”

Imladris is frightened. Somniari are powerful, she knows this intellectually, and she has picked her own paths through the Fade. This though is something new, and she has never met a mage who can paint the world around him. Her feet are wet, and the snow is falling, and Solas has a snowflake stuck in his eyelashes. She moves to brush it off. “Where to? The Breach will swallow the whole of Thedas.”  
  
Solas is grinning under her touch. He takes her hand when it drops. “Somewhere far away where I might research a way to repair the Breach before its effects reached me.” She snorts at the ridiculousness of him. She sees him sleeping in ruined libraries and breaking into Chantry archives and stealing precious manuscripts. He smiles down at her. “I never said it was a good plan.”  
  
Imladris says, “And then I woke up.” She can feel the heat radiating off of him, and she is drawn like a moth to flame. “Saving you from a series of humiliating escapades.”  
  
“And sealed the Breach--with a mere gesture. And right then, I felt the whole world change.” He takes her hand, pressing at the center of her palm with his thumb. The Anchor flares slightly, and he drops it and looks away.  
  
She says, hoping beyond all hope, please don’t let me be wrong, please don’t leave me alone, “Felt?”  
  
“You change...everything.”  
  
So she kisses him, throwing him against the wall of the shack, and for a second they almost fall and she pulls away, but he grabs her back and grinds against her, she didn’t know you could get hard in the Fade, not that she’s complaining, and he is a bit rougher with his hands than she was expecting so she bites down on his lips and he laughs breathlessly when finally, finally they break from the kiss. She does not take her hand off his ass.  
  
“Not here,” he says. Reluctantly she lets go of him. “It’s not right. Not even here.”  
  
The snow melts in the heat of her horrified embarrassment. “We’re dreaming, aren’t we?” She backs away, but he takes her hands again and pulls her close again, and though they are not real she can still feel his heart beating steadily. He raises his hand to caress her face. Instinctively she grabs his wrist. She doesn’t like people touching her face, not now, not in the life after, she doesn’t let people touch her. She’s angry now, not at him, at herself maybe, at what has been done to her. She would’ve liked to let him touch her.  
  
Solas says softly, “Perhaps this is a conversation best for when you wake.” He tugs his hand out of her grip, and she can feel the world falling away, so she hurriedly grabs him again, before he can turn her away.  
  
“Wait.” She reaches up and kisses him again. New man, new taste, new smell: she kisses him tenderly because she has learned to treat every kiss like it is the last. Because one day it was, and one day it will be. When she opens her eyes she is alone in that cold Inquisition bed. Imladris covers her face with her hands. She feels so horribly sad, and she does not know why.  


* * *

  
Imladris waits at Skyhold’s gates, and half the Inquisition follows her. Cullen and Josephine come for diplomatic niceties. Iron Bull ambles by to spy. Vivienne arranges herself to judge. Varric comes by for moral support, he says. She wants them all to fuck off. She only wanted Fiona, and Fiona is lost in her own books, waiting for her own son to arrive. They are elves, mages, mothers, revolutionaries, and the Inquisition holds Fiona’s chains. She cannot forget that. Imladris cannot forget that. She cannot afford to forget the inequalities around her--that would be the easiest way to get a knife in the back.  


Her kinsmen come with dignity, halla bright and proud, tossing their heads as they walk down the Skyhold bridge. They have brought three aravels. She recognizes the craftwork: the first is her own, the second belongs to a cousin whose in-laws were very active in the dockworkers’ guild, the third was built for an elvhen family who had fled the Blight right into the Blind Men, and whom Clan Lavellan had taken in. At the head of them is a human man, Rivaini, tall and with Mythal’s vallaslin. She cannot help but smile: her friend Luis, the Mouse, called that because he is just as stealthy as one.  
  
“Lethallin,” Imladris greets. She grasps his arm. If they were in private she would have tried to pick him up, but Varric is staring at them and clearly writing the moment down in his head. She doesn’t want to be a character in one of his novels, but she suspects she has no choice.  
  
“You got our note?” Mouse murmurs. His lips twist at the spectating crowd. “I brought the kids. All of them. Revas says thank you for getting them out of his hair.” She is barely paying attention. A small figure is climbing out of her araval, and it is helping an even smaller one down. Everyone is staring at her. She lets go of Mouse and gestures at the guildsman, who is holding a baby to his chest, she should know his name, Mahanon had belonged to that union. She greets the adults. Her children are quiet, standing off to the side. Mathalin holds Mirwen’s hand and they wait patiently. Her kin look utterly shattered. It has been a long two month’s journey through the Free Marches, Orzammar, and finally the Frostbacks. Mathalin’s eyes are filled with tears. She wipes at them with her free hand but does not cry. Imladris aches: I’m sorry, da’len, I’m sorry. 

Josephine takes charge quickly, finding a space by the barn for the aravels. As they head over, wagons creaking, Imladris picks Mirwen up and takes Mathalin by the hand. “Don’t cry in front of the shem,” she murmurs. “They don’t deserve your tears.” Mathalin stares straight ahead, but her fingers clench around her hand. Mirwen hides her face in her neck. She’s getting big, too big to do this, but for now they can pretend. Josephine shows them the baths, and most splinter off--Mouse signs that he will meet her at dinner. People stare and murmur as they enter the hall. She hurries them to her quarters. Josephine follows as far as the landing but, mercifully, Leliana opens a door and stops her.

Imladris puts Mirwen down. One of the servants has already drawn and left a tub steaming gently in front of the fire. “You must be tired,” she says uncertainly. “Was your journey hard?” Mathalin looks at her incredulously, tears prickling at the edges of her eyes, and Imladris hates herself for leaving them, but she could not have brought them to the Conclave with her, they would’ve been killed, and they would’ve been killed at Haven too. She tries to brush away her tears but Mathalin slaps her hand away. She is crying in earnest now. Imladris kneels in front of her and waits. Mirwen in contrast ignores them both. She throws off her clothes and jumps into the bath, slopping water on the floor, passive-aggressive like her father. Imladris checks a sigh.

Eventually Mathalin lets her hug her, hiccuping sobs into her neck. She’s five feet tall now, and looking stretched like a colt. Imladris says, “I’m sorry,” and clutches her back. She closes her eyes. She could not have brought them with her. She could not have gone back, but tell that to a child, to her little girls, who have seen her ripped from their home before.  
  
“Why didn’t you write?” Mathalin says into her shoulder.  
  
“I did write, da’len,” she says, surprised. “I tried.”  
  
“No,” Mathalin says. “You didn’t. All those letters read like a will. Like you were planning on _dying_. Not like you were coming back. It was horrible. It made Uncle Revas cry, Auntie stopped reading them aloud when they’d come. It was _horrible_ without you.”  
  
Imladris closes her eyes, pained. Revas has always been unstable, left forever edgy and snappy since he was enslaved--and she cannot blame him, there is something cold and unmoveable in her since she was imprisoned, but it is hard on the children. They try so hard to soften their sharpest edges for them. Clearly they have failed. She exhales. “Yes,” she says. “It has been horrible without all of you, too.” She looks at Mathalin pleadingly. The baby fat is starting to melt away, and she sees her own father, Baranduin, in the cheekbones and the nose. Her daughter, unmistakably hers, no matter how much she looks like Mahanon. “I tried to come back. And I wanted you with me. But it wasn’t safe. They had me running an entire campaign in the Hinterlands, da’len. I could not have risked you two. All I was doing was fighting bandits and sealing those rifts.” And occasionally herding druffalo, she remembers sourly, and on one memorable occasion, doing all that simultaneously. “It would not have been safe. I do not know what we are fighting but it is beyond what we deal with at home. Duke Antoine doesn’t have a dragon.”  
  
Mathalin shudders, sniffs, and tries to smile. “Be awful if he did.”  
  
“Well, I’d still take it down easy,” Imladris offers. “They haven’t killed me yet.”  


* * *

She settles them into bed with her and falls asleep easily. Rather than sinking into oblivion, though, she wakes up in the Fade, and is immediately annoyed. The problem with sleeping in close proximity to an untrained Dreamer is that every dream becomes lucid. She had missed her daughters terribly, but the new oblivion had been lovely. Solas knew to skirt her dreams unless she went looking, too. Mirwen doesn’t have that sense of boundaries yet.  
  
Her quarters fade into view, but the colors are not quite right, and there is a rug on the floor that is the rug she kept on her bedroom floor, back in the Friendly Homes. Deep red, gold tassled, her aunt Ithilien made it: Mirwen is Dreaming again, and they have been sucked into it.  
  
“Fuck,” Mathalin says besides her.  
  
“Language,” she corrects mechanically, as if she wouldn’t have said the same. Mathalin makes a face, and Imladris laughs and touches her head. “Now, let’s see where your sister has brought us, this time.”  
  
“I just want to sleep,” Mathalin whines. She huffs. “At least you didn’t have her poking around your dreams when you were gone, it was _annoying_. Everyone’s sleep kept bleeding into each other! Samahl started sleeping in the stables, but Auntie Olivine wouldn’t let me.”  
  
“Good, because you hate the halla, and the halla hate you,” Imladris says, amused. They walk down the staircase, which is oddly solid. Imladris is smiling, because Mathalin and the halla have never gotten along, she’s too impatient and proud with them. She’s grown but not that much, and maybe that is something about her daughter that will never change. She cried when one of the halla licked her as a baby, maybe that set her up for failure. Then they are in the Great Hall abruptly, and all the shadowy figures of visiting diplomats and pilgrims and clerks have halla-heads. Mathalin takes such a quick step back she knocks into her. “Steady,” Imladris warns. It is deeply creepy. It is deeply Mirwen. “I think we’re getting closer.”  
  
“Why’s she so weird?” Mathalin says. “Like, what is this?” She waves a hand at the halla-headed crowd. “Mamae, can’t you make her stop?”  
  
“She’s not weird,” Imladris protests. “She’s just...creative. Maybe she’ll be an artist.” Mathalin gives her a disbelieving look. “As long as she’s not hurting anyone, it’s no harm.”  
  
“She’s doing this on purpose,” Mathalin says. “To mess with me. She’s spent too much time with Malika and Azadi, and they made her even weirder.”  
  
Imladris says firmly, “Enough. You are nearly thirteen and she is barely seven years old. I hope you wouldn’t stoop to her level. As for the twins, well.” She tries to stay out of the rivalries between the children, Mouse and Olivine are much better at talking them through their petty fights. None of them are cruel, though Malika has a mean streak that reminds her of her own and Azadi can be cold. When she wakes up, she resolves, she’ll ask Mouse how they’ve done. They had to send Azadi to Orzammar after he killed a noble, Revas had told her; she should check in with him, and make sure his sister and the girls haven’t been driving him up the wall.  
  
Mathalin reaches to try the door that leads to the war table but it begins growing leaves, a sign a spirit with personality has taken up residence. Imladris shakes her head sharply. She would explore that area on her own, but the Fade is volatile enough without adding a prepubescent mage-child to the mix. Mathalin huffs and makes to try the next one, leading to the rotunda. To their surprise, it swings open as they approach.  
  
“Within the bounds of this fortress, the wards will protect you,” Solas is saying. “But still, it is best you learn caution as early as possible.” He is sitting crosslegged across from her daughter. The rotunda walls are wonderfully technicolor, but before Imladris can recognize the shapes as images, they blank out. Solas glances up at her. “Inquisitor. I was hoping you would join us.”  
  
“She always comes when I ask,” Mirwen informs him very seriously. Imladris sits down next to her, putting her arm around her. Mathalin settles next to her, staring warily at Solas.  
  
“My daughters,” Imladris says, “though you’ve met Mirwen already.” She is charmed by the idea of him waxing poetic about his sojourns in the Fade to Mirwen, her little Mirwen with her bizarre sense of humor and obsession with jousting. “This is Mathalin.”  
  
“Andaran a’tishan, da’len,” Solas greets her formally.  
  
Mathalin bows her head back. “Ma serannas, hahren,” she replies. Imladris smiles, pleased at her manners. It only took thirteen years of cajoling and occasionally threatening to teach her them, but finally, it seems like the lesson has stuck. “You’re the Somniari my mother wrote about, then.”  
  
Solas meets Imladris’ eyes. She smiles diffidently back. Of course she told her family about him, they’d met him, he is a topic of interest. He is a Dreamer! There are so few left, and he had promised to help Mirwen learn to manage the Fade.  
  
“Yes,” Solas says cautiously. This is new ground for both of them. They still have not had a moment to talk about the kiss.  
  
“Can you teach her how to _stay out of my head_?” Mathalin asks, formality abandoned. She glares at Mirwen. “Halla-heads! Every night she wakes me up when we’re sleeping and she won’t leave me alone.” Imladris puts her head in her hand and wearily rubs her eyes as Solas laughs. That is more like her. So much for hoping she could play nice in front of strangers, though perhaps Solas is not quite a stranger.  
  
“It’s not particularly good manners to sneak around in another person’s dreams,” Solas chuckles. “And you should be wary of shaping the Fade when you do not yet know how to dissolve and banish what you summon.”  
  
Mirwen crosses her arms. “But it gets boring. And Mamaela says I have to stay in the house, so I can’t not walk into them.”  
  
“Ah, but that does not explain the halla-heads,” Solas says merrily. Mirwen, annoyed, buries her face in Imladris’ arm as they both laugh.  
  
“I’m sorry we disturbed you,” Imladris says.  
  
“You’re not a disturbance at all,” Solas says quickly. He gets to his feet. “A welcome distraction. I was doing nothing productive before Mirwen found me.” He gestures vaguely at the walls. “These were painted, once. I plan to paint them again. This is your fortress now. It should stand as testimony to your actions.”  
  
Imladris is taken aback. “What do you mean?” she asks. “What are you planning on doing?” He had mentioned he painted, long ago in Val Royeaux, when her family vendezvoused before Josephine presented her to the Chantry, before she had to deal with Vivienne. She blinks. That feels like a lifetime ago.  
  
Solas smiles, lighting up his face and smoothing away some of that worry and stress he always carries. Her heart catches a bit and she smiles back. He says, “Da’len, wouldn’t you like to see your mother dropping a mountain on a would-be god? Actions such as these are worthy of being daubed on a castle wall, don’t you think?”  
  
Mathalin is unimpressed. She says, “Sounds like Mamae. Didn’t you start a wildfire once?”  
  
“That was your uncle,” Imladris protests. “Who told you that?”  
  
“ _You_ did,” Mathalin says triumphantly. “When you were mad at me when Malika and I were fighting with the torches.” Imladris winces. She did, didn’t she--that was when they nearly set half the city on fire and Deshanna made the abrupt decision to move rebuilding the houses in stone. As for the wildfire, it is still unclear if it were her brother’s fault or hers, but she maintains that Revas was the one who made it worse by panicking and throwing the first jar of liquid on the brush fire that he could find, which was Antivan fire and not an ice bomb.  
  
“Right,” Imladris says. This farce has gone on long enough. “Solas, thank you for keeping an eye on Mirwen. Now, Mirwen, you are going to get rid of the halla-heads, and we are going to go back to our quarters, and….” She hesitates. She really just wants to rest, but these are her daughters, brash, rude, and a little weird. Solas frowns slightly and the room suddenly comes into sharp contrast around them, as clear as it would be in the waking world. He has even replicated chips of plaster on the floor. It is disconcerting. She does not fear the Fade, not like Vivienne, but she doesn’t like walking it without a research objective in mind. Deshanna says that’s begging the question, but when the question can eat her mind if she doesn’t keep it in clear view, she doesn’t mind falling into the occasional logical fallacy.  
  
“What?” Mathalin says. “I just want to _sleep_.” Desperation creeps into her voice. Imladris bites her lip. If this year hasn’t been easy on her, it has been worse for her girls.  
  
Solas says, almost shyly, “I can help with that.”  
  
Imladris replies, “Please.”  
  
Imladris dreams she is back in Wycombe during a hot rolling summer, lying under her favorite tree. The grass is high but not itchy, the sun beams without burning, and the wind wafts the slightest hint of the sea. Mathalin is snoozing lightly besides her, and she pushes herself up, back against the tree, to see Mirwen braiding grass. Mirwen turns around and smiles slightly.  
“My love,” Imladris says. “Child of my heart.” Ma vhenan, da’vhenan. What language have they all been speaking?  


* * *

Her family does not settle into Skyhold quietly. Josephine does not seem to know how to use them. She tries to assign them to castle repairs and her nephew Samahl comes to her. He finds her in the garden, helping Adan and Elan Ve’mal break new ground for medicinal crops they need to plant.  
  
“I’ve nothing against a bit of hard work,” he says, trying for diplomacy, “but it’s not a good look. She knows we all know how to read and write, right? There are enough people who want to haul the castle back into the shape. She should give the guildsmen something that actually uses their brains. Else it’s just--I mean, we could just go to Ferelden at that point. King Alistair pays better, and it’s even more anonymous.”  
  
Imladris sighs. Josephine tries, she really does, but she sees the tattoos and the pointed ears and underestimates them like every human noble she has ever met. The refugees that Clan Lavellan have brought are all malcontents. They have spent their lives fighting for a world that utilizes their potential. She puts the guildsmen in the Quartermaster’s Office, walking in and dressing down the noble fool Josephine installed for his family connections.  
  
“Make yourself useful,” she tells him. “My people will show you how.”  
  
The family from Ferelden had helped establish the schools in Wycombe. Imladris decides they should do the same here. Skyhold has a small army of children, after all, and not just her own--the mages have the little ones, and many of the kitchen and cleaning staff from Haven brought their families too. Mother Giselle has a little kindergarten set up in the garden, but her cosmology, in Imladris’ opinion, is counterproductive.  
  
“We do better,” she tells her kin. “Draft a curriculum. I won’t have our children learning that their whole existence is a sin against those humans’ Maker.” She knows that is the wrong thing to say--Mahanon was Andrastian, after all, and so is Briala--but she cannot force herself to care.  
  
Then there is the issue of the twins, her own twin brother’s children. Mathalin and Mirwen have school to keep them out of trouble and are carefully watched, but Malika and Azadi are quick-tempered and so idiosyncratically Clan Lavellan. Their father Revas is a blood mage and a painter, their mother Olivine is half-elf, half-dwarf and fascinated with what she can do with light, chemicals, and a couple of good mirrors. Their family is not that unusual in Wycombe, not with House Cadash mingling so freely with the elves for ages, and her being the First. But within the Inquisition, they stand out--and Imladris worries that they will be hammered back down.  
  
After mediating yet another dispute between Cullen, Vivienne, and Fiona, Imladris summons Malika and Azadi to her office. They bring bribes, out-of-season pears from the kitchen and a book of dwarven epic poetry. She’s flattered. They must have stolen it from their grandfather. She will have to send it back, after she is done reading it.  
  
They stand before her desk nervously as she examines the gifts. Finally, she puts down the book and stares them down. “So?” she says. “Any trouble?”  
  
“What? Us?” Malika says. “No.” She looks unconvincing, but that is just her expression. Imladris looks at Azadi instead.  
  
Azadi says, “Uncle Mouse told us to keep our heads down. So we have.” He glares at Malika, who smirks. “Or at least, I have.”  
  
Imladris has not heard any complaints, so that means someone is too afraid to tell her what her niece has done. She suspects it has something to do with Sera--because Sera has been suspiciously silent, too, hasn’t she. She makes a mental note to drop in on the tavern, when she has time. She never has time, but she’ll have to find a way to do it.  
  
“Uh-huh,” she says, bluffing. She pours them both a glass of wine and moves them to the couch. Azadi’s eyes narrow. Maybe he has learned something from his cousins in Dust Town, which they could never shake into his head: caution. Unlike her brother, Malika drinks her wine too fast. Imladris resists the urge to sigh. She’s young and she will learn--though Revas still drinks too much, sometimes. She’ll have to ask Mouse how that is going, without her to keep an eye on him. “I’ve been placing our people in the infrastructure of the Inquisition. They might think I am a figurehead, but soon they will not be able to act without realizing that I-- _we_ \--are essential. Where do you see yourselves?”  
  
Azadi is quiet but Malika immediately has an answer. “We can run messages,” she says. “That Circle mage keeps trying to insert her servants, and I think the dwarf-girl is part of Sister Nightingale’s staff. We could do that, easy, we’re more trustworthy and better fighters, too. And they can’t say no to the Herald of Andraste, can they?”  
  
“Mythal,” Azadi says. “Keeper said to say Mythal.” He crosses his arms. He looks like his elvhen grandfather, Baranduin Lavellan, with that hooked nose and heavy brow. He’s stocky like a dwarf, but tall like his mother. Malika looks like Olivine’s mother, who was quite a beauty, especially by shem standards--round and curvy and apple-cheeked, and as poisonous as the cyanide one can find in the pits.  
  
Imladris is impressed with Malika’s proposal. She had thought to apprentice Azadi to the smith who repairs Cassandra’s armor, and put Malika in the library to spy on the mages and whatever gossip Leliana’s scouts brought in. This, though, is much more direct. “Why not?” she says. “Good idea, Malika. And what should I do with Samahl?”  
  
The twins exchange a glance. Imladris smiles wryly, missing her brother. She and Revas had been much like that, and drove their older sister Ashara spare. Now what is she going to do with Ashara’s son? He really is the best of them.  
  
“You should ask him, not us,” Azadi says finally. “He and Uncle Mouse have been mostly staying in the stables, but he can pass as human if he wants. You could put him into the Inquisition proper. Get that templar to train him. They might let that happen.”  
  
Imladris is amused. “Oh, but didn’t I say that the Inquisition was for all?”  
  
Malika laughs. “Yeah, right, Auntie. They’ve got elves as runners and servants. I haven’t met any in the camps.”  
  
Azadi says, “I have. And dwarves too. One drunk night with the Chargers doesn’t count as an entire survey, Malika. Use your eyes.”  
  
Malika makes a face and Imladris senses a quarrel building. She interrupts, “Well, thank you for your advice. But now--tell me how you’ve been! How bizarre this all has been.”  
  
“At your order, Your Worship,” Malika says, and mock-bows. Imladris laughs and pushes her playfully, and for the first time since the Divine died, begins to relax.  


* * *

Blinking into the cold dawn, Imladris slips out of bed and leaves her daughters still snoozing. Mathalin sits up to watch her dodge down the staircase. When Imladris turns around, at the foot of the stairs, she sees her flatten back down and pretend to be asleep. She lets it pass and lets the door shut behind her. Imladris worries at her lip as she sweeps into the Great Hall, nodding sharply at the obsequious courtiers who decided to gamble and leave the great nations’ courts to see what she could build. Varric is already up, shuffling papers with a cup of java at his usual table, but she waves him away and continues to the courtyard, down to the barn. An Orlesian merchant evaluates her under her mask, and Imladris is relieved she leaves her alone. She strides through the puddles and finds her favorite nephew and his father up with the horses. Mouse is grinning with Master Dennet as Samahl brushes down a hart. She slows and smiles. She loves them, she always has, her friend and the miraculous life he and her sister managed to make.  
  
The merriment doesn’t stop when she walks into view. Instead, they pull her in.  
  
“Inquisition!” Dennet barks. “You didn’t tell me your clan bred hart as fine as these. Halla-rider, my arse. This beast is fit for the king of the Dales.” He is trying a little too hard, but at least he is trying at all.

“We don’t have kings,” Samahl says. “But I suppose Auntie will have to make do.” He pats the hart on the nose. It sidles its tongue up his hand, and Samahl sighs as he wipes the drool onto his trousers.  
  
Imladris rolls her eyes. “No pressure,” she says. “I’m an institution all in myself. Are you two busy? Come walk with me.”  
  
Mouse says mildly, “Oh, yes, Your Worship, you’ve always been a natural at giving orders.” She scowls at him while he laughs, and behind him Dennet is suppressing a smile as he takes the brush from Samahl.  
  
“Go on, lad,” Dennet says. “The Inquisition awaits.”  
  
She falls into step with Mouse easily, matching his long, easy strides, though one of his steps take up two of hers. Samahl follows more slowly, eying anyone who he catches staring at them. That’s my boy, she thinks fondly, he does us all proud. She always gets sentimental about him, she knows, the first baby of the family, and the only one with an ounce of common sense, though she has high hopes for Mathalin. She leads them past Skyhold’s bridge, waving the guards away, and down into a strange little valley tucked below the fortress.  
“Deciduous trees,” Imladris mutters. “Birches. Magic. Who wanted a deciduous forest _in the Frostbacks_ so much to enchant it?”  
  
Mouse says, “Deshanna, if she had the lyrium to spare.”  
  
Imladris snorts. “There’s never lyrium to spare.”  
  
“And that’s why we don’t have flying aravels in Wycombe,” Mouse muses, “or singing seas, or talking trees--”  
  
“Yet,” Imladris says wryly. “Yet. If Gadden gets his way, we’ll have enough lyrium to raise Arlathan again.” They settle in the roots of a particularly smug oak tree. Mouse takes out a loaf of bread, freshly baked. Of course he would already have wormed his way into the kitchens. That is what they have learned to do, to make themselves charmingly indispensable, and to feed themselves from it. She supposes it doesn’t hurt that her human brother-in-law is building a relationship with the kitchen staff--it makes her more relatable, perhaps. Josephine does not like it when she uses the kitchens herself. It doesn’t make the Inquisition look good, when their leader is regularly mistaken for a servant. She has been a servant before, of course, and a baker. This is all new.  
  
“Immo,” Mouse says. “You’re drifting.”  
  
“Mm?” she blinks, and takes what he is offering her. “Wiggled your way into the kitchens?”  
  
Mouse says, “For now. I need to leave soon, now that our people are established. You should try and make sure we’re in as much of the infrastructure as possible. We’ll keep sending...anyone who needs to leave quickly, your way. You can protect them, of course.” A statement of certainty, not a question: Mouse has always set the guidelines of her life.  
“I’ve made the twins my advisors’ messengers,” Imladris says, a bit defensively. “Ithilien’s aravel is now in the quartermaster’s office. He might sign the papers, but they’ll be writing the promissory notes. Leliana might read my mail but now we have eyes on hers, too. They’ll be trained in her codes. Not all of them, but enough.”  
  
“But you don’t have anyone in the military,” Mouse says.  
  
That is fucking annoying. She has recruited half of Ferelden to the Inquisition’s banner, at least two cults, and several mercenary companies. “I _am_ their military,” Imladris says crossly. “I open their fronts. I dictate their strategy.”  
  
“And you barely see your soldiers,” Samahl interrupts. “You talk to the Chargers’ captain, sure. But Scout Harding’s the only one who’s brave enough to say good-day to you. It’s not like it is at home, Auntie. You’re not one among many. You know half the mages don’t even know your name?”  
  
Imladris feels blindsided. She had wanted a bit of peace for once, a moment to rest in the incongruity of the trees and patch of healthy grass in the midst of these sharp mountains, and even Mouse would not get off her back. “How is that my fault?” she snaps. “I didn’t--I have no control over my movement. This,” she brandishes her hand at them, “drags me from rift to rift. It’s worse than when we were working for the Carta. I go where I’m sent, and I’m sent everywhere. I have no time, let alone _energy_ , to talk to the troops--and I just had _half a mountain_ dropped on me, if I remember correctly. Which I’m not sure I do! Because a Tevinter magister walking out the ashes of Haven to preach me a Chantry sermon seems a bit like a trick of the Fade. And I can keep going if I keep moving. I am trying. But if you ask me to stop, and think, I--” To her horror, her voice breaks. She looks away from her nephew, shamefaced. He has seen her like this before, of course, however much she tries to project strength in front of the children, but it stings to be less than what he needs.  
  
“I--” Samahl starts, but his father interrupts.  
  
“Survey the area,” Mouse says. “Please. We need you to stay in the grove to dispel any unsavory rumors, but get out of hearing range.” Samahl gets up quickly and begins his prowl around the perimeter of the woods. Imladris stares down at her hands, blinking rapidly. She struggles to get her breathing under control. She has been trying her best in an impossible situation, in a nightmare straight out of the worst stories of the Blight. No amount of strategic analysis can prepare her for fighting legends come to life. They are not even her stories--she would rather fight Fen’Harel himself than pay credence to the Chant of Light. Yet here she is, the Herald of Andraste, a new verse in the Chant of Light. Mouse waits, patiently, and when she is able to look at him again she sees he is wearing that stoic but slightly sheepish expression he puts on, when he knows he should apologize but let her speak first. It is infinitely comforting to be able to read his face. She has known him almost her whole life.  
  
“I think you’re buying into our own propaganda,” she says rustily.  
  
Mouse does not blink. “Say more.”  
  
She clears her throat. “I know you’re spinning this,” she clenches her hand, “to fit our faith. I’ve heard enough people talk about the Herald of Mythal, from Val Royeaux to Virnehn’s last First. And the children have mentioned it. I don’t know if that’s Briala, or Deshanna, or even Gadden--” Mouse’s mouth flickers slightly, and she realizes suddenly that she needs to scream at that dwarf, “but _I am not divine_. The gods have been long gone. And just because I am forced to--fight legends, doesn’t mean I am taking their place. I know the power of story, Luis.” She uses his real name to underline that she is serious. “I’ve written enough for our magazine, I’ve given enough speeches, Mahanon and I had _fun_ mythologizing about what we did.” She stops, she does not want to think about Mahanon now. “But I--I cannot do this all. I cannot do this alone. And I am alone. When you leave, I am going to be alone.”  
Mouse is silent, watching her as impassively as he can fix his face. She watches him back, noting where crows’ feet tuck into the corner of his eyes. A few lines are new. He has more gray in his hair and in the stubble of his carefully-shaped beard. He has let his vallaslin fade. Before she left he had been talking about getting it retouched. Finally, he says simply, “I’m sorry.”  
Imladris sighs. “I hate it when you do that. I can’t fight with you, when you’ve already conceded.”  
  
Mouse shrugs. “Revas and Olivine would’ve stormed the Conclave singlehandedly to bring you home. But we knew we would have failed. And now we can only make the best of it. Which isn’t very good for you.”  
  
“Or my children,” Imladris says. “Mathalin told me reading my letters was like going over my will. She said Revas would cry. Is that why my brother isn’t here? Because you know he wouldn’t leave me alone like this.”  
  
“You have a castle,” Mouse says. “You have my son. But would you really leave your People undefended? We want you to come home. It isn’t fair, Immo. I know this. But I have faith. You are no one’s herald, true. But I trust you. Enough to leave my son in your Inquisition. Because I know you’ll do right by us, as best you can. You always have. You always do. And, though I know this isn’t what you need, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I can’t stay and help you. Whatever that would look like. But I hope you’ve found people here, that make you feel less alone.”

Imladris looks at him balefully. “That is a cheap attempt to fish for gossip.”  
  
“I’ve been spending a lot of time with Gadden,” Mouse says, choosing to ignore the dig. “Perhaps I’ve learned how to be cheap.”  
  
She sighs. “Don’t get married without me.”  
  
“I’d expect you to officiate.” He smiles gently. “When this Breach is closed, perhaps. When you come home. After our work is done.” Journeys end in lovers meeting: she would like to come home to a wedding, the ancient streets of the ruin they’ve returned to a city decked in flowers. Wycombe is its best in early spring, as the crocuses peak through the snow, and it has been so long since she has had an excuse to celebrate. Her two old friends formalizing their vows, that is something to look forward to, whenever it may come.  
  
“If I live,” she says. “If the world isn’t swallowed whole by the Fade. If that dragon doesn’t herald a Blight.”  
  
Mouse laughs. “Have some faith. You’re a legend now, Inquisitor. Pray to Mythal. She’ll see you through.”  


* * *

They agree that Samahl should formally enlist as an archer in the Inquisition. She needs eyes and clever ears in the barracks, after all. They stroll back to the castle, and she feels easier. The weight of the world is on her back but her family’s foundation holds strong. Mouse chats about Gadden, their parents, negotiating a formal betrothal between the Rivaini Merchants’ Guild and House Cadash, with of course Keeper Deshanna acting as a totally extraneous mediator. House Cadash gets along with everyone but the Orlesians, which is how they have managed to make a living. Imladris tells him what Solas mentions to her, that stoned bone-pained night that Varric dragged her back to her quarters: House Cadash started here. They’re charmed by the idea, that below their feet is the foundation their friends have built.  
  
“See?” Mouse says. “It’s not as bad as you think it is. You still have the stone below your feet.”  
  
Imladris snorts. “You _sound_ like Gadden now. He’ll have you worshipping the Stone in no time. What’s the lullaby?” She sings at him, “Da'durgen'lin, banal malas elgara. Bellanaris, bellanaris.” She and Samahl laugh as Mouse blushes.  
  
“I remember Mamae singing that to me,” Samahl says, still grinning. “Don’t think this is what she meant.”  
  
“Oh, your mother predicted this,” Imladris says firmly. “She’d say…” She trails off--what Ashara would say is rather unkind, that Mouse is so desperate for meaning he synchronizes whatever belief he is told, too afraid to forge his own path. She’s right, but Imladris would rather not tell her son that.  
  
“Something cutting but horribly right,” Mouse says drily. “Never one for mincing her words, was Ashara. May the Dread Wolf never hear her step.”  
  
Imladris chuckles, at first fondly, then drifts sadly. Even the Dread Wolf does not deserve Ashara in a bad mood; she would like to see her, though, or at least find out what became of her, after the wardens took her. The rush of rage, fear, and grief takes her; then she breathes and beats it back. She has laid one sister to rest. She only hopes she learns what has become of Ashara. But she keeps breathing and lets the thought go, because she has Mouse and Samahl at her back, and for now, that has to be enough. She has lost her sisters; she still has her nephews and her niece. That has to be enough.  
  
They take the long way through the ruined battlements, gazing out at the state that Inquisition is carving out for itself. Constantly caravans worm through their way through the Frostbacks, pilgrims trekking tired behind the druffalo. Her soldiers greet them and bring them in: shellshocked peasants from the battlescarred Dales, merchants with a nose for money, casteless dwarves looking to make good. Her kin are the only Dalish, which bothers her. There are more petty Ferelden adventurers and Orlesian bourgeoisie than her own people at Skyhold, and this had been an elvhen fortress too. Still, she supposes she cannot blame them. She would run the other way from any Chantry institution, herself--which makes being its figurehead even more sour.  
  
They enter the castle proper through the rotunda, and Imladris does not let herself hope Solas is there. She says, tone decidedly casual, “Where do you think the children are? We should do one last dinner, before you leave.”  
  
“What are you on about?” Mouse says, puzzled. But ahead of her are Solas and Dorian. Dorian is lounging on the sofa, shaking a book at Solas. Solas looks irritated but brightens when he sees her. A smile spreads across her face, and for a moment they are both uncertain as to what to say. Mouse mutters, “Huh. I thought you liked them with more hair.”  
  
She ignores him. “Are we intruding? My apologies. This is my brother, Luis, and my nephew Samahl.”  
  
“I believe we met briefly before,” Solas says. “In Val Royeaux.”  
  
Val Royeaux feels like another lifetime ago. Dorian arranges himself more aesthetically and stares at Imladris pointedly, waiting to be introduced. Imladris, amused, says, “And of course this is Dorian. He claims to know Revas, which of course we must believe.”  
  
“Ah yes,” Dorian drawls, “because all us Vints do is lie.”  
  
“And blood magic,” Imladris adds helpfully. “Can’t forget sacrificing slaves to whatever old god you’ve dreamed up.”  
  
“How could I,” Dorian’s moustache twitches into a smile. “That is the cornerstone of my identity. Besides, of course, the drink. Dorian of House Pavus, at your service. We haven’t met but I assure you I’m the best company at the end of the world. Did your--sister tell you how we met? It’s quite a story.” Dorian peers very intently at Mouse’s face. The vallaslin has faded but not been erased.  
  
“We’re not actually related,” Imladris says, a bit testily. “If you’re fishing for information. Luis and I grew up together, and he had a child with my sister.”  
  
“The sister who’s dead?” Dorian said, perplexed. Imladris makes a mental note to torment Varric and Blackwall for gossipping about her personal life, and potentially Cassandra too.  
  
“No, the sister in the wardens,” Samahl says, annoyed. “The sister who is my mother, yes. Not the sister, my aunt, who died in the rebellion. There are a few sisters.”

“Atisha,” Imladris says warningly. Peace. Dorian opens his mouth and then closes it. Imladris casts about for something to say that isn’t obviously awkward, but Solas breaks the silence for her.  
  
“Dorian and I have some disagreement with the use of spirits in rebuilding Tarasyl’an Telas,” he says earnestly. Imladris snaps to him, relieved for the distraction. “Skyhold. Most of the Circle mages are uncomfortable with the idea, and while I do not see the use of turning down help willingly offered, Dorian believes that we can simply draw them across the Veil and bend them to--his will, I suppose.”  
  
“Well, I’ll ask first,” Dorian says. “But I’m very good at getting my way.” He crosses his arms. “So, Inquisitor, what do you think? Should we ask?”  
  
Imladris blinks. The Dalish have long-standing agreements with certain spirits, like the Lady of the Brecilian Forest, and the High King of the Applewood. Varterrals like to make themselves useful too. She’s met spirit healers, and even a man possessed by a spirit of Justice, and Mirwen claims a spirit that looks like her own mother watches over her in the Fade. “Are there any spirits who like manual labor?” She looks to Solas for answers. “I don’t want to force anyone into our service.”  
  
Mouse says, “I thought the darkspawn magister was a bit much, but if you manage to recruit an entire workforce out of the Fade...I do wonder what I married into.”  
  
“You have that wonder,” Imladris says, “like some people have a persistent cough. Or the clap.”  
  
Then a child screams. Imladris looks up to see her niece Malika and Sera cackling as they push a cursing Mathalin right off the railing of the rookery, and she jumps into action to catch her. Unfortunately, everyone else has the same idea, and she collides hard with Samahl. They both stumble, causing Mouse to crash into Solas, who has leapt backward to catch Mathalin. He slams into the desk, hitting his head on the edge. Dorian vaunts forward, yelling, “Vishante kaffas, flying elves, I got her!” but trips over Solas and bellyflops onto the desk. He wheezes.  
It is over in a matter of seconds. Mathalin floats down gently onto the ground, pissed the fuck off. Imladris rushes to her, but her daughter pushes her away. She shakes her fist upstairs, where Sera and Malika are cackling, leaning against the bannister. Mathalin punches out once, sending a crack of flame right in their faces. She darts towards the stairway, but Imladris grabs her.  
  
“No,” she says warningly. “I’ll deal with them.”  
  
“Whose side are you on, anyway?” Mathalin brushes her off and stomps out of the rotunda. “Fucking magic castle, activating the ward, I’ll _show_ them…”  
  
Imladris puts her head in her hands. Mouse is laughing at her. He had to wrangle them from Wycombe to the Frostbacks, of course he’s laughing. She has to deal with them now. She has half the nobility of Thedas at her door and she has to manage them now. It is all a bit too much.  
  
Solas says, rubbing his head wearily, “Well, you must laud their curiosity, while questioning their methods. Perhaps we can direct Sera and your niece--Malika, you said her name was?--into assisting Madame de Fer in cataloguing the extent of Skyhold’s wards.”  
  
Dorian laughs. “Brilliant! That’s cruel. Who are you punishing? All of them? All of them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and the first chapter of our next arc, "In Peace, Vigilance," is over! and it gets wilder from here. Next up, "The Tree of the People," where King Alistair comes by in time for the Inquisitor to receive her first petition from the elves of the Edgehall Alienage. And this time it won't take me four months to update, I swear.


End file.
